Dream 517

Cycling on the underside of the superhighway

over a bridge in an unspecified foreign country,

I go into a spin, U-turn suddenly, and find myself

surrounding by thugs with wrenches, who, though

I pedal faster and faster, shouting obscenities,

keep pace with me, lock their wrenches onto my bolts,

loosening nuts mercilessly until my bike flies

apart in the wind and I fall upward into the noise

of an alarm-clock siren. Waking, I throw up my hands

and wail, pondering a universe beyond my control.

 

Copyright 2014

T. Allen Culpepper

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