I had a crossbar saddle of my own.
I liked to sit there more than at the back –
great view up front, behind a total lack,
apart from father’s coat, which, feeling prone
to falling, I would cling to without fail.
No need for that up front. Despite all this
I soon fell off: my father came to miss
his firm grasp of the steering when a gale
came swirling right along Marathon Road.
I was bowled over cobblestones: and I’d
soon gained before I knew the other side.
Along that long, straight road no traffic showed
that February morning. Harsh words flowed
(I can still hear them): that’s my last school ride.
To see the original poem, go to here