ten-speeds and duct-tape sneakers.
elbow scabs and asphalt face masks.
bare back streaming down the streets
picketed with papier-mâché lampposts.
smiles printed in black and white, stuck
behind the glossy crinkle of packing tape.
you regress homeward, carrying questions
that Mom, wrapped in black and blue polka dots, can’t answer.
she only knows Dad wants you inside now.
trapped between the plastic and cold metal.
riding circles around this mystery, exalting it
to the golden sky. she would never tell you
why her face broke out in purple rashes
then yellow splotches. they sent you outside to play,
to ride your bike, and when you fell, you learned.
then you chose
that those faces stuck beneath the tape were
angels,
and that Mom loved to wear black and blue
polka-dotted sweaters.
and you, then,
could keep pedaling.