Wednesday, March 8, 2017

MOBILIZATION OF THE PROLETARIAN DIASPORA

I suppose if you're fortunate,
one day—when you're
old enough,

you finally get
handed-down
a grown-up bike.

It's light, and it's
quick, a little too tall
to ever let comfort
be a passive luxury again.

Best of all, its sophisticated body
doesn't insist on itself
with all those sharp corners
the way your old one did.

Its supple, contoured chrome
is painted silver
or gold—or the ripe mellow
color of some other
carefully cultivated liquor or mineral.

You're really thrilled
to move so
gracefully, forcefully, propitiously
toward your destinations,

choices-within-choices
for speed and resistance 
just a finger's length away.

Only real problem is—
nobody tells you
before you trade up

how you can never
pedal backwards again. Or,

that is to say—you
can if you want to, but

when you do, nothing
will happen.

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