fixing bicycles in my sleep
On the hill, switching gears, the chain falls off. But here, in my sleep,
there are no potholes, no traffic, no crumbling curbs, so it’s easy
to hop off, kneel down, find the trouble, and make the quick repair.
Here, too, my hands don’t bear the grease marks, don’t pinch
at the creases while I ride, and my shoulders - knotless - arc
into perfect half-circles on curves no swerving Sunday strollers
would ever interrupt. But waking, I realize the scene - tranquil as it was -
can’t quite match the gritty weave through misbehaving SUVs, jaywalkers
testing my reaction time, my field of vision bobbing with obstacles, and my legs
sweaty on the pedals, finding the filmy lines of a new trail, and carving it.