The Bicycle Tire
The leaf, brown and tattered, attached to my bike tire, by the juice of the over-ripe fallen plum
Turning, again and again, disintegrating with each rotation, to dusty-leafy juice
Remnants reduce with each turn to a disrespectful mash upon the black white-walled tire
Pushing the old, 70 pound Mead Crusader, up the long and steep hill, long past the worry the skip-tooth chain might break under pressure, tonight, tomorrow
The early-summer late-evening breeze whispering at my perspiration glowing brow, prodding the heavy steel frame up to home, where cooling awaits
Glimpses of fog-licked Fairfax hills, invites the pleasant anticipation of open-window sleeping
This is how I remember evenings that have been, and are now.
That spinning tire, with remnants of all evenings past , juicily dirty
Posted on July 23, 2014