balloon tire bikes
we tooled the island
in long lazy curves
under the hot sun
down the narrow
asphalt roads and
mangrove swamps
until the road opened
and we rolled past
flamingo and sherbet
colored houses --
a drunkard's rum
and coke fantasy,
orangesicle bungalows
lavender cape cods,
lime rickey cottages
bragging luscious red
azaleas, lipstick
roses and rhodedendrons,
it's Christmas Day!,
and once again
we're alone, roaming
the streets, lost
among the migraine
whine of the locusts,
all these empty
homes and the hot
afternoon sun
on our heads and
the aimless ease
of these bikes,
pedaling the world's
loneliness, it's
all so big and
distant, like
imagining the world
when we grew up,
wishing we were stars in
some rock band, Tommy
James and the Shondells,
singing "Crystal Blue
Persuasion" and
"Crimson and Clover,"
to really know what
love is all about, daring
to hold hands and
understand that
unspoken something
in the mangrove swamps,
in Percy Faith's "Theme
from 'A Summer Place,'"
impossible to
cross that bridge
without knowing you.
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