the days are derby colts

the days are derby colts

It looked like miles when seen through windblown eyes.

The Barlow brothers next door had brand new bikes

with bells, and intent on proving that ours could fly

the same — yes mom, we have our helmets — we’d lock

our flip-flopped feet into stirrups and bend

our backs like the concrete strip was Churchill Downs.

And down the hill and past the church we’d wind

in careless ecstasy, our t-shirts blown

like wide-brimmed derby hats, those August evenings

when we would race like we were running from

the end of Summer. We’d gradually slow, begin

to argue about the winner, then pedal-turn

to sludge our aching way uphill until

we felt the asphalt sticking to our tires,

dragging us down and making our muscles feel

as if they too were made of concrete. They tired

quickly those days. Dismounting to slog on foot

we’d urge our steeds with sweaty hands and tongues

as dry as track dust. We were going up

and growing up, and it would not be long

before a bike was nothing but a bike,

and neighborhood hills were not the sacred strips

of Belmont. Sometimes on mild August nights
I'm young again. The days are derby colts.