Bike Poetry, March

It’s not the crack of dawn, but it’s early. That time of day when you see more buses than cars. My wheels hum along the smooth pavement on Whitney, still dirty from the winter but so much smoother than last spring;

I find things… boxes, cables, parts swallowed by the winter that was, and left like treasures for the casual hunter;

A quick left and a detour take me to the cracked and fissured pavement of Dixwell to the west, and then further south;

I stop at my usual place. It’s too early, and the tables aren’t on the sidewalk yet, so I cradle my mug and think about sitting on the curb, sit inside instead, and think about this early reprieve.


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