Dancer in the dark

It’s ten miles from my long beach apt

to the bros of st patrick in midway city.

On a bike there are two rough patches:

on Westminster a quarter mile sprint

from the market place in-road to the bridge

over the flood control near the power plant

(no bike lane by the curb, cars making the short

sprint to the freeway turn, old and

over-coffee’d citizens, me dialing long

distance to my legs without special

rates)

and the two open miles

further along the same easement

between parallel fences

of the naval station, exposed to

silos of eternity.

The childhood secret of peddling

is to take your time.

It’s also a good way to miss

the toe-dancing. The guinness

was gone, good thing I’d picked

up same at the viet liquor store.

The way back a zen coast or

walk under the influence

stepping out of headlights

casually as

a homeless fred astaire.

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