Moving
sticking up in square form a few inches
into my vision through the rear view mirror -
except the rarely ridden bike whose tires linger higher,
catching the breeze to spin like a Ferris wheel
in a forgotten county fair. I look to its tumbling passengers,
past the second hand dishes, a broken VCR,
a two dollar cast iron skillet from Goodwill,
paintings for the new walls to be labeled home,
an archaic computer, school books
from an accepted degree,
a bucket of boots & shoes, and clothes
kept in case of an occasion that never comes.
(November 22, 2001)
