Pace Line

The man on the bicycle is unconcerned

with the rain-slick asphalt and the brakes

that no longer work; rather, he is focused

on the wheel ahead and holding that line on

the black ribbon of road under his tires.

The man on the bicycle will hold that wheel, then

take the lead when honor and obligation require

and part the wind for his nameless accomplices

trailing behind in the water's spray, their tacit

agreement of mutual aid until the road tilts up

or someone bows out, whichever comes first.

The man on the bicycle knows that pain and

suffering are labels, words he chooses to not use

for his circumstances as his body protests his

mind's insistence with shocks of silent fire

the roadside observer will never know.

The man on the bicycle knows the absurdity of

this act, riding a circuit on a day better suited

for ducks, but the rain hits his number, pinned

to him, his whole identity now this, as he and

the others balance on their machines, legs as

fulcrums carrying them on until the white line

slides beneath them and they go slack with

ratchet clicks and beached-whale gasps as

their wheels slow and stop and they

become ordinary again.