I wanted to break your bike,
but it was too obvious, expected
"uncalled for, dude."

I wanted to slam through my door
and scrape my shins on the pedals,
spinning on your back wheel sideways
down my driveway,
jabbing the weight of your excuse
into each angry thrust;
grinding your gears randomly,
2 with 7,
uphill and standing up,
but vommiting halfway through.

You would never see me at the top.
You would never see this coming down the mountain.

I wanted to get a running start
and dive down, fists-first
with my eyes closed, but I wanted
to listen to the neglected ricket
in your front wheel shaft, shaking complaints
over every pothole, your handles rattling
over each loose rock;
I didn't want to see the construction cone
that I remember ahead.

I wanted to choke your front brake into a scream,
clench my fists from your handbrake
to your oily, worn handle,
but I was already airborn,
rippling tshirt; a face first dive into pavement,
sidewalk crack and backbone bend.

I wanted to watch its wheels bend with me
under my impact,
rubber sagged over twisted spokes,
Frame cat-scratched over sandpaper blacktop,
sliding away from me like it was never there,
but it wasn't ever there.

I wanted to break your bike;
break your face, every tooth;
break your excuses, thin between my fingers;
and split your smug smirk--bleed and swell,
and I wanted to rub it in with tar and pebbles,
but they were broken when I got there.

07/16/2005

Author's Note: excuse me

Posted on 07/17/2005
Copyright © 2024 Matthew Zangen