Posted in Poetry

Gliding

Of all the zillion frames of my life,
Why does reverie
Rerun for me so often, unbidden,
A soundless clip of me
At eight-or-so
In the late afternoon
Of a school day
In the spring
Aboard my red two-wheeler —
Not fire-engine red,
But not as dark as burgundy —
With a perfect chrome headlight,
Gliding down
The gentle slope
Of Willets Drive —
Past our house,
A breeze on my face and hands,
My mood riding high
Above the world?

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