Posted in poetry

Gliding

Of all the billions of frames of my life,
Why does the projectionist
Rerun for me so often,
Unbidden and unpredictably,
A five-second clip
Without sound or voice-over
Of me at eight-or-so
In the late afternoon
Of a school day in the spring
Aboard my red two-wheeler —
Not fire-engine red,
But not as dark as burgundy —
With a perfect chrome headlight,
Gliding down the gentle slope
Of Willets Drive, past our house,
A breeze on my face and hands,
My soul suspended
A few feet above the world?

Author:

I’ve retired after a career teaching law. I divide my time now between Athens, Georgia, in the States and the south coast of Ireland.