So a bicycle on a sidewalk
cold cocks a pedestrian.
What might a bleeding student
thrown out his window into the night
by masked mercenaries
think of that
as he falls
too many storeys
to an unmarked grave.
And what are such old men as I
complaining about
when other old men
have ordered such acts
in the name of God?
Walking on the sidewalk
lately has made me feel like
a tin duck in a shooting gallery:
when will the next sidewalk biker
be awarded his giant stuffed panda
as I lie groaning on the pavement?
Must I duckwalk like a prisoner
glancing neither to left nor right
lest such frivolity
carry me into the trajectory
of a careless cyclist?
Sidewalks are for walking
yet ringing the bell
before he overtakes me
seems never to occur to these
silent interlopers
who should be on the road.
Oh for the good old days
when kids clothespinned cardboard
to clack on the spokes
or actually stayed in traffic
taking their own chances
in their own Russian game.
The first step onto the dock
is like a fresh haircut, a new dress
Unpacking the groceries
is like casting a line into clear waters
Changing into the swimsuit
is like answering the door on your birthday
Sitting on the front porch
is like unpacking in the college dorm
Cracking the first beer
is like sitting on the front porch
Watching the river flow by
is like forgetting everything else
whatever it was.
