A good cigar is a man but a I’d rather ride a bike
Back on my Bike. I ride through the streets and it’s past seven.
I ride to the river, recklessly riding not looking where I am going.
I ride through backstreets,
I ride through the darkening shadows of trees painted on the footpath,
I smell the effluvia of the ocean coming in,
spices in oil,
dead possums on the road,
dog shit in the park,
gardenias in a Countess’s garden and I let go of pumping the pedals and scream down the street not looking for pedestrians, riding through the dark streets, gliding past cafes and people smoking on the footpaths, stopping, moving around them, not wanting to flick my bell but enjoying the slowliness of a few moments with my feet on the ground, a few recognisable perfumes, cracked heels in velvet shoes, nothing that looks like ambrosia in glasses,
I’m winding down through the streets,
my heart racing, my bike now an extension of my body, effortlessly sweating, moving.