morning harbor walk
an unbearable commute
paradise my view
Puerto de Cartagena
morning harbor walk
an unbearable commute
paradise my view
exercise
Benidorm
they swim all morning
cloudy day shopping after
our car abandoned
A Vacation Day
small mountains pounded by wind
for a million more years
than our Rockies,
we listen to the persistent slap
of waves coming in,
smashing into slate,
bubbling up along the beach,
a Mediterranean breeze
no competition
for howling Fourteeners’ gales
just like in Colorado,
only shrubbery will grow here,
yet it persists
beneath a blistering sun
that has taken a vacation day,
just as we do now
instead, sprinkles of rain
mock our first steps,
and we discover fluffy carrascos
and giant yucca-like palm bushes,
a chaparral setting with
soil colorado, tinted red,
the roots of our state
along the shores of this sea
My Game Lost
the third day
of the job i no longer have
(its nightmare clutching my morning).
the gossip regurgitated
from freshly painted new faces.
the perfection in concentration
resulting in my words
tossed back at me from
the digital keyword demon.
the ball that flies into the sky
never making contact with my arms.
my game lost
in an argument
a dream
a choice that burns me
with each rising ball of fire
give me a new day
a bright-starred moment
to know that
the person i have become
is more than a digitized rejection letter
flashing failure in too few words
Arapahoe Road
it is like any other day.
it is unlike any other day.
i strip in thirty seconds
and replace appropriate attire
with oh-so-attractive cycling gear
i have it all–
the tight shorts, leggings,
arm-hugging shirt,
fingers-enclosed gloves
to fight a bitter headwind,
helmet with its beautiful
pop-top blaring light,
oversized headphones
that won’t fall out of my ears,
my music. set.
i pedal hard.
the wind scathes me,
but the sun settles amongst
perfectly puffy clouds,
a blue sky spring
and a creek
with mama mallard, daddy duck,
so idyllic i want to
trap their innocence in a lens,
all before i reach Arapahoe Road.
i can’t trap it,
but i take my headwind in stride,
arrive home to three
bright-shirted girls
who make music of their own
he texts me later,
driving home from the ice,
stuck in traffic
on Arapahoe Road.
Lexus Mustang BMW Tahoe,
i illicitly reply,
i fit right in.
(bumper-tied-on 98 Hyundai)
he sends back a laugh
and i smile,
the picture perfect ride
as i crossed this very street
present in the forefront of my mind
on this day like any other,
this day unlike any other.
Sweat, Sweet
tomorrow i will barely be able to walk
today i’ve earned my immobile muscles
with three hours of intensity
that blinded me with sweat
which makes my double scoop
of mint chocolate chip
topped with thin mints
all the more sweet
Step
with these feet
you will pound it out
you will remember your childhood
your hand in his
you will run
run past the wind
as the moment
you last saw him
slides into your subconscious
and he becomes a part
of every step you take.
Parasite
i’ve worked so hard,
many years of pedaling,
vegetable infusion,
(just a bit of sweet)
and yet you hover
around my belly,
an obstinate parasite,
one that does not
suck me dry,
but clings to the hope
that you can take over
everything i don’t
want you to have.
Sør Ås Bîk Clüb
she wears a jersey
that shames us all
What will you do
it asks,
on your 70th birthday?
this on mile sixty-two
a record high day
where we pop out fully cooked
from sauna port-o-lets,
strap on our stinky helmets,
and try to beat the sun home
jerseys mock me:
sør ås bîk clüb
biker chicks
(with matching nest pics)
Ride the Rockies
and every other place
i don’t quite fit
men in drag
weave themselves up and down,
stopping to fix flats
and pose for pictures,
their exuberant rainbow
of wigs, skorts, and fishnets
bringing welcome laughter
the day begins with a sea
of hot air balloons
decorating the mountain-backed sky
and ends with free lunch,
an all-girl band,
and women who know
just where the road can take us.
Hills
what kind of work
allows you to pack up,
swim your way through the air,
and live as an ex-pat
for two months?
i can dream, can’t i?
instead i watch
as bills pile up, as
we take our daughters’ allowance
to go for a family outing,
and i regret
the long drives,
the friendly plane ride,
and every penny that we don’t have.
i wish my pedals would work,
would bend back the money
i should be saving on gas,
the money lost on a new battery,
a dishwasher,
food for our table.
i wish
that the energy i burn
in twenty-six miles
would be enough to transfer
to everything i’ve ever wanted.
but the hills?
they are steep,
miles long,
and keep popping up.
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