The Bike

there is a february i don't want to remember
the cold is not in the air, it's where i live.
i see a small bike on the roof of a house,
as i drive down the highway,
and i know it was thrown there in anger,
and will not be healed.
there are parts of me thrown on the roof,
from the road they look so small and tragic
against the size of the trees and the sky,
and the sky only a fraction of what is.
but what i feel is the cold, gritty roughness of the shingles,
the smear of mud on the concrete below,
the bike, waiting for love.

copyright 1997