There is no question of her cycling up the hill; She has no upscale concoction Of carbon-fiber frame and painstakingly engineered gear-ratios. Her bike is a single-speed Schwinn Of as uncertain vintage As the woman herself, And she walks it, An occasional spoke missing, The paint chipped here and there, Up where she once climbed In a ’54 Chrysler convertible Next to the man She later visited at the TB sanitorium Which once sat at the top of the street, Two sons giggling and bickering In the back seat (The boys long since gone, Having fled the snow and the downsizing For other climes) But now she peddles her bike Around Massey and State Streets for a bit Before she coasts back downhill, And sometimes drivers glare At her (she is, to be fair Something of an impediment to traffic) And carfuls of kids or soldiers in convoys Headed up to Fort Drum Will heckle her--Hey, lady! The Tour De France was last month! She no longer has any interest in The stares or commentary; She is focused on the bottom of the hill.