SLAM!

Be careful what you wish for

It was but a short way, perhaps half a mile,
from my uncle’s farm house to our own,
but, oh, how far that half-mile seemed
when I was yet a couple years short of juvenile
and my parents would not easily condone
me riding my bike where farm traffic streamed.

“Walk in the ditches,” and I did, choking back bile
as I slogged through the grass while kicking a stone,
and each foot of each yard I plotted and schemed,
for while short of height and young, I’d plenty of guile.
I finally convinced them I’d be okay on my own
at the side of the road where the verges lie seamed.
My plan was quite grand, but rested on quicksand.

I tended to milking our cows for awhile,
as proof of my mettle and sturdy backbone,
then added my rides would be fully redeemed
should my worth be somewhat enhanced when mobile.
Seed next took root as I nurtured my own
thought of value-returned with the bike & I teamed.

Parentally blessed, I began to compile
trips in the saddle, but I’d ill foreknown
that chores at my uncle’s were poorly esteemed;
the clearing, the mucking, of cows’ domicile
was not what I’d reckoned when there all alone,
while off in the corner a little lamp gleamed
and silently panned. It had all gone as planned.

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