My Fendered Steed

When my bike was my horse

MY FENDERED STEED
May 15, 2005


The wind surveyed my face
as I slid my so-called horse to a stop.
All of Texas trembled beneath
its notional hooves and the tangle of
vines and umber, foliage and flora
encircled its fetlocks,
adopting its four crescent vestiges
for half moons in the sand.
Now through the glass the weather
rings the bluebells and
Grandmother says we need the rain
and how good it is for the flowers
but I only keep remembering the
rubber tread on sage-scented
backyard prairies where tumbleweed
blows against the spoked legs
of my fendered steed and wish
I could hold the sun-sparkled
handle bars again like reins
in my fists even if Grandmother
says all this rain will help the crops
and only when she says
it will green up the paddocks and
provide food for the horses do I
prick up my ears and pay attention.