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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

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