The Bicycle Poem

Last night I per­formed this at a poetry slam. It made people laugh, I like it when I can make people laugh.

Why must you tie me to this bicycle of loneli­ness?
Every day you bind my hands to the handle­bars and my feet to the peddles and push me out the gate.
you say: don’t come back until din­ner time.
I say: but why must you push me away like this, I’ll do as you ask me, please?
But usu­ally by this time I’m going quite fast, as our street is on a hill,
and you can’t hear me any­more,
and I must con­cen­trate on not hit­ting parked cars and children.


I have no choice but to ride the cycle paths of Can­berra
never stop­ping, never paus­ing.
I can­not take my hands from the frame to wave at other cyc­lists because you have bound them there.
I can­not stop to help the pretty girl with the flat tyre because you have fixed my feet to the peddles.
I can­not pause for long enough to talk to any­one, because if I slow I will loose my bal­ance and fall.


You say that love is about sac­ri­fices, and about being con­tent with what you have.
I do not even have you most of the time.
All I have is a bicycle
All that I can do is ride and ride until I know it is time,
and you will be wait­ing there for me by the open gate as I wobble up the drive
and you catch me and unbind me just before I come to a fatal, wobbly, stop.




This poem is not a meta­phor, it is a bicycle.

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