Bike

Biking up Southard towards Duval,
Cyclists slowly climbing the incline,
All assuming similar rhythms
With the others,
The sky,
The silence of 4 p.m.

I passed two boys on bikes.
"You know how to get to yer house from here?"
"Shuh."
"Yer goin’ the wrong way."

When I stayed in Bahama Village, I’d bike home at night, through the burnt smell of freebase clouds that lingered,
Past the crackcrackcrack dealers
Who chanted at me without end,
Until they figured out I lived there.
Then I became invisible to them as their eyes scanned the street.

When he and I had.. problems, I would ride the island.
I remember passing Smathers Beach so many times,
Wondering what was happening..
Why were we dying, drifting, cooler..silent..
How would anything ever be right again?
The sun’s heat never distracted, rather, the pressure compounded.

I’d get on my bike and she’d get on her moped
At 3 a.m. after dancing and drinking for hours,
Her French glamour overwhelming,
The way she sways,
The loose familiarity, her knowledge of rhythm,
As the bass bomb drops,
And she dances beautifully,
With her silver backpack purse over her shoulder,
Her friendship, my singular comfort.

Smiling, we bid the other goodnight, and in a moment,
She speeds off towards home.

I go in the opposite direction,
Very slowly,
Accepting the calm that Night and my bike offer,
My eyes sweeping the streets in time with my pedaling.