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March 21, 2003
Hudson Review, The, Summer 2004 by McFee, Michael
the second day of the War on Iraq
Spring finally pedaled past
on her beat-up bike with rusty fenders,
singing pensive wordless songs
that filled just-opened doors and windows,
wearing a blue-sky sundress
and chartreuse helmet from which a braid
dangled thickly down her back
that stayed perfectly straight as she rode,
level arms stretched out sideways
like an acrobat balancing on the high wire,
long bare pale legs steadily
propelling her toward the commanding sign
at the end of the road and its refrain,
this old black road we're headed down again.
Copyright Hudson Review Summer 2004
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