Each time I pushed, the pedals spun around,
a blur of black that twirled with perfect time.
My fingers drifted off the handlebars,
and slowly, I began to lift my arms.
The purple bike and I began to glide
from side to side — we danced across the street.
I floated with the music of the wheels
and melodies of laughter from my friends.
The humid air was charming — I was forced
to sing along with summer’s wind. The street,
my stage, was waiting. I wobbled, darkness
consumed me. I heard gasps. The curtain closed.
The shadows, moving closer, yelled and ran
as packs of prying people gazed and talked.
My neighbors called my name to no avail.
A car arrived and I was swept away.
The stitches wove within my knee and I
observed the needle causing me more pain.
“Summer — good for injuries,” the doctor said.
“I hope you don’t have any plans tonight.”
This poem was originally published in The Main Street Journal and on my website, christinebarba.com.
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