forgotten ways nurturing

I switch my yellow cycle with its rear flat
to my non-writing hand, or texting, as it were, nowadays—
the gear’s clicking rewinding to me my thoughts,
earlier, up the hill, from home, but not mine anymore, I wince.
but at least I thought to walk to the gas station up the block,
instead of rumbling on the violent air compressor,
during latest of the night, sucking awake every cat on the block,
just for a moment that they’d then blink away—
how they think they’re people, like us, elite and honored,
nimbleness and agility are born from such sentiments,
I’ll later think, as I dash away—
I don’t think it’d wake anyone else up at this hour,
my parents, for instance, who though I’d only stay the summer,
can’t help but live my laziness, too,
wallowing with in the heat, aching for change—
but the nights’ve been cold, lately, chilly,
like they’ve been aching for a story themselves,
so I went for a pre-dawn ride and took extra change—
how much does it cost now to fill yourself up with hot air,
or quiet stories from the concrete:
I’m staring at all the signs on the machine
all of them telling me to follow the directions,
like I’m some fool who can’t operate a simple machine—
but, I read poetry, and write it—highest creation
and it takes all four of my quarters before I realize its not “on”—
and what is on? am I, now?
such lucidity lays in question, I think,
as I lean against the hum of vending machines at another station,
a few blocks further up, with another chance to fuel my chain and wheels—
I thought I’d romance for a bit though, under the stars again,
however many there are over these quiet city blocks,
and the sundries of sleeping or sleepless people,
like me, but not like me, tucked in their own smaller blocks—
I wanted nightly freedom, even if I had to walk a little for it—
I had brought exactly enough extra change,
and now I’m crusin down the soft-lit park hills
with one hand, then no hands,
but its too fast and I brake, and slow,
and park at the park and smile:
fil haraka baraka they say, but in sitting as well, too—
solitude we take for granted
is like a breath you thought you wasted—
but I remember, back at the station,
I had this hope, climbing inside into my coat,
and grazing my face before the breeze blew it away:
“three minutes vend”, but I took some of one,
my time made precious in the silent night.
then I rode away, and here I am again,
and here come the dawn song-birds,
ready for the long blaze of day,
singing like the highway does to the open sky,
like the open road to the speeding horizon,
like the uphill climb sweeping my each foot’s step,
demanding extra measure and balance as I write,
and walk the bike, swinging its direction,
gently, to and fro, writing waves in the streets
and in my hearts. you remember, its the same,
how you can swerve your steering a little,
quickly left then right, you sway but stay straight, still,
winding the road and the winds through your hair,
like what you say goes, and almost endlessly—
whoa, you might’ve said, when you turned it too much—
but to have yearned too much, earned too much—
never! you keep heading on for each horizon,
the dome of your eyes stretching the path down,
you make it yours like the sweetest line,
begging honest for only the nearest rhyme,
and it’s time to shine:
switch hands if you have to, whatever you do,
life, love, writing, reading, breathing—
its just like that wheel hurried was before you,
pointing every which way, though your own sights are fixed—
and even if your eyes close for a moment,
you let your heart have its say and play,
facing down your path, and what you’ll leave behind. today.

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