Cycles

CYCLES

Grrroom, grrrooom goes some Harley down the street.

Never had a motor; had a playing card in the spokes,

And that sounded neat, like a put-put-put,

And had a siren, oh it was loud and illegal

Probably

But my grandfather found it, bought it, got it

Somewhere

And it was a police bike siren from the 1800s.

Recycled on a Schwinn and it really did squeal.

But that was long ago, back in my childhood.

How the years cycle by like flip cards

In a peepshow nickelodeon.

I can see us as scrawny little urchins

Plopping coins saved from gathering pop bottles

Off the street to recycle at the grocers,

Buying us some creamsicles and fudge pops

Out of a cooler inside an Atlantic gas station.

Or was it Esso then?

A lot of things are gone that’ll never cycle back.

Sinatra sang of cycles

But ol’ Blue Eyes is a long time dead.

The seasons come and seasons go

And we watch the bloom and blossom

And the frosting on the pumpkin

And the falling leaf and snow,

The ever churning changes of the

Same old same old cycles.

Life is like a washer, so much on automatic.

We’re awash in wishes

As we spin our way through time,

Then a rattle and a clatter,

Our cycle out of balance,

Reminds us that our dreams

Have changed from grandiose

To mundane

And now we only recycle memories.


Posting her for The Gooseberry Poetry Picnic Week 13, Childhood Dreams.