At The Market

AT THE MARKET
May 29, 2005


The sun on my winter back
through layers of summer warmth--
The birds in my ears
my chin in my warm palm--
The dark in the eyes when I close them on life
as music, voices, motors, laughter
drive through my brain
down my mind's road
where Impala tires tread
and Erie curbs melt
into spring with roller
skates flowing down the
wet drain in a cascade
of seasons of arms and legs
and elbows and knees clad
in leggings, now shorts,
now jeans in PF Fliers
on black rubber pedals
that spin as fast as time
picking dandelions and
places to go and streets
to coast down. I removed
my hands and then my feet
(why not? the bike won't know)--
but it did, somehow, and I was
dumped on that melting
Erie curb with spring flowing
down the wet drain.