I never learned to fly
When the other fledglings flew,
Talons gripping golden bars
Of a home I never knew.

I was inside but for a moment, and this time
Never thought to lock the chain,
No sign of my battered, blue Schwinn with the squeaky rear brake,
You must have pedaled like the devil on the North wind,
Vile, wretched, rat-faced incubus,

I know your kind too well, you see,
Too bad your baggy jeans didn’t
Get caught in the whir of spokes,
It would have been worth a bent frame
To see your ****** faceplant asphalt painting,

I demand satisfaction in teeth and nails
Plucked from living flesh, Oh Karma,
One pulled for each bus ride I’m forced into,
One for each mile trekked that should have been yours,
You, after all, should be used to walking until,

Like youth’s dreams in old age,
Your shoes have come apart at the seams.
Didn’t your dad buy you a bike?
Or did his hands give you nothing but boxed ears,
When he was there, maybe he wasn’t so often?

Does my loss smooth the rock in your gut?
Do you bear greater burdens than this petty guilt?
For the theft of one battered old bicycle,
Do you deserve the full heft of my considerable ire,
Heaped on like firewood, too big to burn at once?

I know not what desperation
Could lead one to take such a homely contraption.
How pampered my sensibilities compared with yours,
Perhaps here is character I need to build,
And you need it more than I. Forgive me.

In the corner, a sign: “Welcome back students!”
(Oh, who could doubt Bud Light’s sincerity?)
“The townies are nice,
(As far as they go)
But the size of their tabs doth butter no bread.”
Merchants of spirits will always prefer
The deluge over the modest trickle.

Full for a weeknight, this place seems to me.
The close, thick air,
Breathed in by too many lungs,
Shows off proudly its perfume
Of grease, old sweat,
And stale, sour hops.
How many paramours have been drawn by that scent?

Lines of glass soldiers stand at attention,
Waiting to be drained of their courage,
Shot by shot.
Bitterness is sweet here,
A flavor to be savored,
Rolled ‘round the tongue then swallowed down;
An arid rain to dry wet fields.

An old, kind, self-conscious biker-type,
My grandfather’s ghost tends bar.
A red bandana over a ponytail stirs black and white memories;
Long legs astride a battered black Harley,
Easy grin tearing the corners of his lips,
Faded, cliché bald eagle tattoos
Adorning weather-leathered arms.

Grampa Chuck serves drinks with a smile
To the hot press of bodies that encircle him.
Sounds of glee and mirth pierce through the murmur
Of robot buzzing bees,
And generic rock music,
That no one listens to but everyone must talk over—
They did not come for the music any more than they came for the alcohol.

A gentle mourning dove sits on the wire
Raising its soft cry through the ev'ning air.
Some say its voice is melancholy, still
It seems content to me just sitting there.

No mourning in its call is there to find.
It is not crying for the sun to last,
But thanks it for its warmth at close of day,
And quietly tells me, "this too shall pass."

Hope is a fragile thing
When it rests on any shoulders.
You've carried my hope, at times,
Like a juggler carries his apples;
Other times, like a young mother
Who cradles her newborn babe,
Protecting him,
From the wolves that circle 'round the yard;
Other times you are the wolves.
              
There was hope then,
Where butter knives tripped locks
And shoulders broke down doors;
The landlord was not pleased
But I had to make sure that you would still be there
Holding up your half of my life,
My dreams still cradled in your palms,
The deftness of your green fingers still tending them.

There was hardly room for hope
As soles of feet became crusted with eggshells.
I never learned to stand still
When the floor was littered with them,
And the floor was always covered.
"When did we replace hardwood floors with these?"
I chanced to ask once.
February's gale was my only answer,
Coming early
To strip bulbs, tinsel, and needles from branches.

Our hope turned to stone
In the furnace of our anger,
Each wagging tongues of flame
At the splinters in the others' eye,
Each too full of pride and fear
To stand with tweezers before the mirror.
The sudden rush of crimson humility
Could have healed the wounds that Pride inflicted,
But Pride was wrong at the top of its voice.

Hope has fled now,
But it has not gone far.
It has fled into the wilderness
And come back to watch for me
From the woods outside our door,
Where no adventurer worth his salt
Could ever fail to find it,
If only he has the courage to begin the search.

What will we do here, my beloveds, without hope,
Here where knees scrape carpet and hardwood,
Where backs, once straight, bend in equine condescension?
Saddles and bridles made of love we have,
We have no need of hope,
Here where tomorrow will always be forgotten
In the long, golden now.