I have to admit that
I have not written much in the vein of experiences
I have had, but
I have thought a lot about the bicycle
I had that I crashed into the knees of my mother that
I had little thought about after the chills
I had from the speed of the ground
I had covered and before
thrusting my sneakers into pliant pebble work
at the mouth of the driveway and
the turn of the handlebars
from my grip when they
gored her like
an outstretched arm
into a pregnant and dilated womb and
I can say
with an honest tear
in my memory where
she cried and I stood more
and less
confused about the affair
that the concrete that
scored my left knee
hurt more than the
idea that she could
be equally and mentally
scarred by my young and
blustery callousness.
