The paint on the new bicycle lanes
could barely have dried
before the cries at intervals
of “On your left!” had begun,
and you could hear the trilling
of little bells like impatient birds
making calls that asked for
the exact opposite of mating.
This had put to an end
the accidental opening of a car door
that would act towards an unsuspecting wheel
as an outstretched leg does to a foot,
and sitting at a sidewalk patio now
has become a silent, motionless clapping back
at the clockwork consensus of innumerable legs.
And people may hold handlebars
with the authority of a CEO
rising and placing his palms down
on top of a boardroom table,
but it’s checked by the reflectors
travelling around slowing spokes
like eye rolls at the gathering traffic.
In fact, what will speed away
faster than any of these riders
is the long, lonely memory of this road
before the drawing of a single line alongside it
prompted thousands of heels
to push back thousands of kick stands,
like they were opening a door
to a party where everyone had been invited,
momentary though the mingling may be.