Like Bitter Tears

"Eight days to fall;"
so says the blow-dried,
hair dyed,
gleaming camera eyed
man on cable channel 27.
I seek contentment
but show malice.
Who made him God?
I bicycle ride
through cold pouring rain,
47 degrees and windy.

My glasses are spotted
and fogged from my exertion,
threatening a nose slide.
A wide back tire
spins water up my back
as intruding drops
seek bare skin,
unprotected by upturned collar.

I damn and cast out
weathermen, warm and superior
in Atlanta
as I puddle jump
and splash more mud
upon clean sneakers
and dirty, soaked knees.
I pedal on in misery
hating gleaming camera eyes,
hair dyes,
and anyone who blow dries.
Eight days to fall.