City Diamond
May 11 2009


The dust, in the garage, has made the grease gritty,
the chain stiff,
the frame dull
and listless looking.
Both tires are flat,
trapped inside all winter.

I want to ride —
the wind at my back,
the sun
casting sharp shadows on greening grass,
the hum of rubber
on warm asphalt.

The rites of spring
are modest —
rake the lawn,
hose the bike off,
stop
to watch kids playing ball.
On city diamonds
with hard-packed dirt around the base-paths,
the first weeds
poking-out of bumpy fields.

Their bikes lean against the backstop,
or lie scattered where they dropped them, running-off.
Choosing sides
talking trash
shagging flies —
pick-up baseball, and riding bikes,
on the first nice day in spring.

While at the far end of the field
on the shadow side of trees,
a tiny patch of snow
still lingers.



I suspect this represents more nostalgia from my youth than it does anything I might experience today. Back then, our mothers kicked us out of the house, and expected us to entertain ourselves all day -- outdoors -- just so long as we were back in time for dinner. Today, kids are more likely to be holed up in their room in front of a computer all day, engrossed in multi-player on-line games (or something equally incomprehensible to me); or in some official activity organized by adults, riding around strapped into the back of a van.

I like the sense of "pushing the season" this poem conveys. Which is how it feels in the northern part of the continent after an unusually long winter. Actually, I'm not much of a biking enthusiast. (Baseball is something else entirely, of course!) But here I'm thinking back, to when a bike was more than a means of transportation or a congenial form of exercise; when it represented freedom and independence (as well as the end of winter!)

This is the first poem I've tried to write since I was completely shut out of the local poetry competition. I found this "loss" very demoralizing, and thought I'd shut it down for awhile. But despite the obvious temptation of retreating into my cave and licking my wounds , I think a better antidote to losing confidence is writing; and that means writing anything -- good, bad, or indifferent. I'm not sure where this poem fits (good, bad, or indifferent, that is); but I'd be happy to put it (or any other of mine) up against the "winners" any day!