We're playing cards
in the spokes of hand me downs
with flat tires
and chittering chattering
grit tightened chains
rusted, but still good
enough to propel us
better than the talking soles of shoes
worn thin and happy and thinner.
We're split ends where
the wax paper skins
have given way
and we're loud and louder than
the sticks we prick in chinks of link
fence work.
Louder still than the rattle tap of corrugated
steel bordering the wreck yards
and collectors and as we
pedal long through dark and darkness
fixed in place
with tape and style and more verve
than chipping paint can belie
we shine harder
than moonlight.
