on my trike
the red one
with wood blocks
on pedals
far away
from my feet.
two girls point
and call me
“Whitey.” shyly,
I play with
the silver nut
on the handlebar
and dare not
look upward.
two big girls
oooh and say
“He’s so cute.”
I pedal away
hard and fast.
***
Seventy-two at the Y, I mount the bike
and pedal
all work and no play is no fun
at all work and no play is no
fun at all work and no play is
no fun at all work and no play
The gym has no clocks
bikers, runners, and working-outers gain no medals.
All, save me, are far away
in their propped-up phones and me on my narrow seat
moving past the pain in my joint.
Circling my tweaked knee
at 60 r.p.m., I wryly
glance at sweating young women. A myth
is what keeps them moving.
(“Forty is the old age of youth;
fifty is the youth of old age.”)
No matter, I finally get off my butt.
The Y’s TV pitches a cruise to warm Zanzibar.
Should I jot
down the agent and fly southward
hard and fast away from the whirls
of machines and medical tests where play
is put on mute?
“That old man is so cute.
there’s no way
I thought he would last.”
