Tuesday, June 10, 2008

Chicago Poem #54

Red Bicycle

Dear Brother, you ask:
How is the rest of the world?
I can only report on that
which is not in front of me.
These days are all looking behind
at a place it never was.
Even if I returned.
And London is never that way, I imagine:
The only thing left
is that bike we built. You were angry
when I left it in front of the taqueria.
It was stolen and then
Ditched in the river.
It's still submerged
in the waters by the old tannery
which will always stink up my memories
with the smell of tanning hides.

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