Originally appeared in The Barefoot Muse
Along my street she pedals past,
No plastic helmet on her head,
Long hair untied and red.
Her incandescence travels fast.
Instead of spandex, pair of jeans.
Instead of crouched, upright.
She’s meant for dappled light,
The rutted path, pastoral scenes.
Most bicyclists these days appall;
With neon shirts and padded ass,
They look both vain and crass.
She didn’t. That was all.