Hard on her saddle now riding her cycle
by gershon hepner
my lady engages the road less than me,
and seems to be frozen in thought, an icicle
for those who don’t know that her feelings are free.
Her soap scented fingers now press on the handle,
but wish to caress what is less tough than steel,
and softer than wax as it melts in the candle
until she can feel it and makes it more real.
Trace me her wheel-tracks, for I would ride with her,
oblivious both of us, pseudo-equestrian,
of other cycles. Oh, make her come hither,
in LA I’m tired of being pedestrian.