It is no longer summer and it is still not yet fall.
The heat index it soars and soars, while grumpily I wait indoors
for the arrival- the sacred revival- of my purpose and my call.
Bicycle Lotto, (that’s what they say) the day we sent my frame away
a tiny ding that it did have was not my fault but theirs, I’m glad.
So in the mail now it comes, by warehouse, plane, and truck it comes.
This matte black beauty, dark as coal to lurk beneath my ass, and roll.