Poetry

All Weather Cyclist

shall we ride

I

ask

in pouring

autumn

rain

over hills

and streets

I’ve

known for years

She

looks at me

and asks if

I’m

really

mad enough

to suggest

going out

in

October’s

slanting grey

I

say

She’s

mad

not to

pounding

over crests

down slopes

through the veins

and arteries

of home

following

nothing

chasing

euphoria

drops fly

off me

stolen from the rain

rolling

down my face

my arms

the frame

of my speeding bike

When I get back she says I do look mad

with that smile and the light in my eyes.

As the storm pours down and the steam pours up

I glance in the mirror. She’s right,

I do look mad under my translucent crown.

Dan Turner