Bicycles Read online

  The towel for your sweat

  The seat you recline against

  As you catch your breath

  I am the salt in your stew

  The butter in which you scramble your eggs

  The apples that flavor your yogurt

  I am the wish

  On the flame of your candles

  When they sing

  “Happy Birthday”

  Blow me, baby

  I am yours

  Everything you need

  I provide

  Now tell me

  Why

  You’re not happy

  GRAY CLOUDS HOVER

  Gray clouds hover

  The chimes outdoors toll

  Water splashes out of the birdbaths

  The winter winds swirl fallen leaves

  Folklore says if the leaves

  Make a circle there will be

  A death at that home

  I do not worry

  I have me to keep

  Me warm

  February is the shortest

  month

  I AM THE OCEAN

  (for Fifty Women Over Fifty)

  I am the ocean…it is not the moon that calls me to the shore…it is I who awaken the moon…and call him down…and rest in his light…that I may dream

  I am the sand…I hold the ocean in my arms…I gently rock this planet…smoothing the rough places…leveling the high…raising the lowly…always…singing a love song

  I am glass…you can see through me…I’m easily hurt…any little pebble can cause a scratch though it takes diamond to cut…I can stand against the storm…laugh at lightning…let the rain sheet down…Why don’t you stay here with me…safe and warm

  I am more than your past

  I am not cotton…to be picked and picked and picked until some crazy boll weevil destroys me…I am not peanuts grown underground…harvested raw…made into many things…nor am I taffy…to be pulled and pulled and pulled…made acceptable by artificial sweetener

  I am my own me

  If you stand in back…stopping the light…I become a mirror…I reflect who you wish you were…and think you ought to be…I show you who you are not

  If you open me I become a window…I bring a fresh breeze…to caress you…to calm the fears

  I am a cloud…I float above all else…I bring shade from the sun…I cool your coffee…I make shapes to form your stories

  I am your future

  When the waters embrace me…when the moon glows down…you clearly see me shining…I Am A Jewel…I shine

  I am

  Priceless…Incomparable…Undeniable…Wonderful

  Me

  Forever and Always Dreaming

  Of you

  I CLEAN

  I clean…No…that’s not true. I throw things away. My favorite things to throw away are in my refrigerator. Old, or even just plain ole ugly-looking food, cooked or raw, or anything that no longer appeals to me, Must Go. It’s a rule. I just died to have that piece of Brie. In the middle of the night I put on my garden shoes and sloughed my way to the store. Found the Brie. Brought it home. 1—forgot to leave it out 2—it didn’t ripen 3—now it must be microwaved 4—it will taste as I suppose shit does 5—it must be thrown out.

  If there is not enough food, I turn to clothes. The T-shirts that have the least little mark on them. Mother used to say I was just like my father. If I have it on I will polish my shoes, dry the silver, wipe the spot. Then when the T-shirt cannot be cleaned I can throw it away. Sox are a favorite also. There is always something wrong…a pillie here…a bit of elastic showing there. Even favorite pink argyles have been sent on to sox heaven. And there are always blouses that you simply must ask yourself: why in the devil did I buy that? The answer is simple: when you get blue you can throw it away. I know, I know, you are asking but what about your cosmetics and pharmaceuticals? I am compulsive so I keep my cosmetics up to date: I have about a three-month supply of hand soap, shower gel, face and body lotion. But my pharmaceuticals? Well, yes, that painkiller did expire a bit ago but you can never know when a pain will hit and hey! Vicks smells the same in or out of date. And I’ve never seen a bottle of peroxide or alcohol that didn’t work no matter how long they’ve been hanging around!

  So if those solutions still find me on the down side I pull out my big guns!!! My garden! I attack those weeds with so much vigor that all I can do after an hour or so is come in the house and open that really wonderful bottle of wine I’ve been saving for when I fall in love again. I’m not in love but drinking a vintage red makes me wish I were. And that definitely lifts my spirits.

  SO ENCHANTED WITH YOU

  I like

  Boiled turnips

  Boiled potatoes

  Boiled rutabagas

  with butter

  and sea salt

  But not every day

  I like

  Fried Virginia flounder

  Fried sand dabs

  Fried smelts

  But usually only on Friday nights

  I want

  Drop biscuits

  Miniature Parker House rolls

  Extra thin white bread

  When I uncharacteristically

  make a sandwich

  I like

  Garlic straight off the vinev

  Anchovies anytime

  And good red wines

  ’cause I’m too old

  to drink cheap

  I like to pound and grill my veal

  I rub my beef

  In a special chili mixture

  I really don’t eat

  anyone else’s ground meat

  In other words:

  I’m Normal

  So this is the question:

  Why am I so enchanted

  with you

  HOW TO SAVE THE WORLD IN 100 WORDS

  (for O, The Oprah Magazine)

  For me—it is the realization that I cannot save the world.

  The world is neither time nor money.

  For me—it is that thing in front of me:

  The man in prison for a horrible crime

  who has become my brother

  My neighbor’s sons who talk football to me

  over the back fence

  The yellow jackets who have made their home by my deck

  All the things I say I don’t have time to do but really

  don’t have time to don’t do

  For me—it is the joy of being alive

  For me—it is the living

  I clock this in at 99 words. I wonder what I missed.

  FREE HUEY

  (for Essence magazine)

  First there was the dream…though Huey wouldn’t call it that…Huey would say “A Ten Point Program”…“Power to the People”…But the people must dream…if they are to use Power effectively…and to dream you must rest…and to rest you must be safe…So Huey called Bobby called Little Bobby…Calling All Men…All Strong Black Men…All Men who are weary of arrest…weary of disrespect…weary of dreams deferred…Called them all to Sacramento…in Black leather jackets and Black tams…with stern Black faces…and shiny Black guns.

  But the government did not ask Who…are these Dreamers…The government cringed…before the mirror of its own conceit…and goose-stepped up its lies…Neither lies nor bullets could bring this Panther down…Huey said “Let there be Women…Equal in the struggle.”

  And good work was done…breakfast programs…schools…voter registrations…hospitals…a mayor elected…a governor confirmed…the arts and literature extolled…a newspaper with all the truth you need to grow not all the news they want you to know…And the fear of the government could not be contained.

  “Panthers”…the government then declared…“are now extinct”…as they photographed Huey on the ground…a bullet now firmly lodged in his back…

  “A drug deal”…the government said…“gone bad”…another great government proclamation…right up there with: the slaves are happy�
��the single bullet theory…the people will welcome us with open arms.

  This righteous…visionary warrior…who…too…had seen the mountaintop

  And heard the hosannas…FREE HUEY…stepped onto a passing cloud…ascending to his rightful place…forever…in our hearts.

  MY BEER

  I wish I liked beer

  I see the ads with the happy

  People golden drops swimming

  Down to quench

  That thirst

  They are always so ecstatic

  I see the bride and groom

  At the reception

  Toasting each other

  With green glass bottles

  The guys at the end

  Of golfing:

  Plaid pants

  Spiked spectator shoes

  Clear bottles of dark yellow brew

  With tiny dead worms

  Floating to the top

  The women with the tennis

  Gear under the table

  All having icy glasses

  With foaming heads

  Laughing laughing laughing

  They are always so giggled

  I even understand the process:

  Grain hops and all that secret ingredient

  Stuff with glacial water high from snow-

  Capped mountains

  Beer I am told is one

  Of the foodstuffs of life

  It is a metaphor an image

  A synonym for contentment

  There is, after all, no equivalent

  For bourbon scotch rum or wine

  If I could learn to like beer

  I could change my life

  I’d have somewhere

  To put my tears

  When we fight

  THEY THINK

  They think I sleep

  Too much

  They are worried

  I am depressed

  Or simply drained

  Of energy

  And do not know how

  To get it back

  They cannot see

  What I see

  That you come

  To me

  And cuddle near

  Telling me stories

  And jokes

  Kissing my forehead

  Making me safe

  And laugh

  If I don’t sleep

  I am awake

  Alone rambling in a clean

  Well-ordered

  house

  WHY DON’T YOU LOVE ME

  Why don’t you

  Love me

  I am good with dogs

  And children

  Old people like me

  ’Cause I listen

  To their stories

  I dress real sharp

  My hair looks good

  Too

  I exercise

  Whenever I can

  I smile every time

  I see you

  And say something

  Terribly witty

  And clever

  I just don’t understand

  I say Jambo

  When I answer my phone

  And Ciao

  When I hang up

  I really really really

  Don’t know

  What more

  I can do

  FIRST CHAIR

  They say I’m too jazzy

  For First Chair

  I bring something different

  And maybe something nice

  But the orchestra is Baroque

  And I am Gospel

  It is Beethoven

  And I’m Rhythm and Blues

  It’s piano

  And I’m honking sax

  My problem is:

  I make my own muffins

  Ice cream

  And music

  Not always the best

  But all ways my best

  I look good

  And I dress well

  I definitely have

  Stage presence

  I want to play

  I want to play

  I want to play

  FRIENDS AND LOVERS

  Friends and Lovers

  are different

  things

  Friends:

  go shopping for shoes

  with you

  add extra garlic

  to that new tomato sauce recipe

  giggle over that silly thing

  that happened back in high school

  Lovers:

  cause your heart to stop

  beating

  put cotton and dumb things to say

  in your mouth

  take you to paradise

  and back again

  and again

  and again

  LOVE (AND THE MEANING OF LOVE)

  I wanted to

  But you couldn’t

  I hoped

  But you wouldn’t

  I understood

  Why we shouldn’t

  So you declined

  And we didn’t

  But it would

  Have been fun

  If we would’ve

  FLIGHT DELAY

  I uncharacteristically ate

  A slice of sausage pizza

  And characteristically drank

  A regular Pepsi

  I characteristically thought

  Of you

  And uncharacteristically said

  To myself

  Nobody loves me

  I characteristically chastised

  Myself

  By uncharacteristically sneering

  So what

  Everybody can’t love you

  Anyway

  But I characteristically wanted

  You

  To uncharacteristically be

  Here

  In this all too familiar airport

  During

  A characteristic

  Flight Delay

  TRAVELERS

  I have had good luggage

  Beautiful Italian leather

  Strong brass handles

  Black

  And I have seen

  How many folk carry

  My old brand

  I’ve gone cheaper

  A loud yellow

  So that it can be easily seen

  A semi-hard case keeping

  The insides safe

  And dry

  Sort of like calling you

  At the end of the day

  Practical but still

  A brush-off as you

  Need to prepare for your evening

  Engagements

  I understand

  I just wish I didn’t

  Travel so much

  Then I could carry

  A good bag

  TRASH PANS

  A trash pan holds little trash…

  the grit that falls that’s not big enough for garbage…

  but horrible underfoot nonetheless…

  not smelly but annoying…

  needing to be swept away…

  so that the floor is easier walked upon…

  with bare feet…

  so that in the middle of the night the grit…

  doesn’t work its way up my pajama leg…

  so that I don’t turn over…

  and scratch…

  and realize…

  you are not home yet…

  I need to keep a trash pan near my bed…

  so that when the lies come…

  I can sweep them up and take them to the toilet…

  no sense in letting them stay around…

  to hurt my feelings…

  bodies tell untruths with shrugs…

  smiles…

  and tongue…

  maybe there should be a little bitty trash pan…

  for your little untruthful heart

  LETTING THE AIR OUT

  (of my tires)

  This is not a

  country song

  I am not

  a d
ixie chick

  There is

  no creek rising

  There is no moon

  weeping blood

  No hound dog baying

  No little old man

  at first light

  up to catch a speckled trout

  I don’t have

  a pickup truck

  I don’t do

  roadkill

  My hair isn’t “big”

  There’s no breast implant

  I don’t talk

  through my nose

  or have an American flag

  tattoo

  This is more pitiful

  than Polly

  wanting a cracker

  Or eggs that won’t sunny-side up

  Sadder than grits

  that won’t boil

  Or chicken wings

  that stick to the skillet

  This is me

  Letting the air out of my tires

  Not loosening the lug nuts

  Not taking my spinners off

  Certainly not being so rude

  as slashing these tires