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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