Some girl said,
“you really like your bike,
Well, I suppose I do.
Sometimes I wish I were a biketaur,
a man with a bicycle instead of
I would be so fast.
Stairs would be a challenge, but
I wouldn’t have to lock me up
to keep myself from being stolen
because I would always be with me.
I could just take off.
I want to ride and ride,
down to the end of the well-treed street,
out of the outskirts of town
where the house paint peels
and the dirt is seeded with candy bar wrappers,
so far and so long that I
would forget time is passing,
somewhere on a Northwest road,
rolling empty through tall fading grasses
and intermittent groves.
I wouldn’t even need legs —
red muscles straight on the gears,
a form made for gliding.
I can’t decide
if I want it to always be mid-afternoon
or if it’s okay for the sun to set.
as a biketaur,
if my torso would just meld into the frame,
if I wouldn’t have a pelvis,
in which case it would be easier
not to think about you.
On the other hand, maybe
the ladies would be intrigued
by my mechanatomical quirks.
I would be the life of parties,
and they would wonder about me
like when men wonder,
“how do mermaids have sex?”
But either way,
I would never have to ask for a ride.
When I get to the end of the well-treed street,
I turn around and go home.
I lift my waist off my bike
and U the lock
around its beaten frame,
chipped and glossy blue.