On Two

It’s another somebody-done-somebody

wrong poem; picture a tricycle, 

red, if you want, or lime green, 

a threnody of indifference the color; put a bell 

on the handle-bar where you hold your confusion, 

streamers out the grips; stick a baseball card 

or three in the front wheel spokes, 

let each revolution be a slap in the face 

of your floptions; in fact, trick that baby out 

with some twenty-two inchers, spinners 

with some fat-ass mags, and you are going 

to want to flame-paint the faux gas can 

on the support frame, something that will cushion 

your slides of your vacillations 

when you rack up the discreditations 

that romance recants; get some glow 

on the pedals, some flashing neon twinklers

that spell Not For You when at rest, 

your fluctuations of go or stay defined; 

replace the rack step with a  low-slung slinky spoiler,

with gull-wings of apprehension 

for aerodynamic capacities 

when you think you’ll flee, 

when you think you’ll agree 

that the course has run, and that, 

though short, 

like your dream trike, it could never happen,

happiness not yours to hold, all you get 

is ambiguity, throb and throe, 

sweet

the heart of the thrumming bell 

flying away in the distance.

© 2012 – Mark A. Douglas – All rights reserved