The Bicycle Poems


It’s turning out to be a truly fine year for bicycles.
At once point demand was worldwide, aging like wine in barrels
and wouldn’t arrive here for another two years.


Ah, the weather paragraph: A fine day for a ride,
with a back-wind rolling off the hills,
like a child losing his marbles
down a flight of stairs.


"I love to ride my bicycle,
I love to ride my bike."
The uncontrollable illusion created
by the whirring spokes of a bicycle wheel
like trying to get a song unstuck from your head.


The Sunday rider in hat and scarf
has made a mess out of Euclid.
He has no regard for Shackleton,
no truck with Einstein --
no end in sight,
no where to be.
He describes a perfect, random path,
where it appeared there was no such thing.

About the author:

Chris Gage lives in Greenpoint, Brooklyn.