consider the single man who rides the bicycle built for two

consider the single man who rides the bicycle built for two

Imagine them laughing at the drum-click of arthritic knees,

smirking at a squirrel's chitter. They hit a root

that's moled its way beneath

the concrete path. She falls off,

he pedals on and doesn't hear. 

Perhaps a darker tale: she was and now is not,

and it takes more than years 

to fill an empty seat

and handlebars. 

Or further, consider if she never was.
The empty seat's an open invitation to be her,

to pedal off with him. If only someone would ask.

Perhaps his mind's a twisted root. He sees who isn’t there,

chats about the Yankees game and stocks

while passers stare

and tell their children not to stare. 

Maybe he killed her. They’ll never know,

he promises himself, if only I 

keep pedaling as before, smile, show

I’m not the type. 

Or maybe she is killing him,
her memory a gun
behind his head, forcing him
to pedal on and pedal on.

Consider that it does not greatly matter in the end.

He’s you,

he’s me, 

this man who rides the double bike alone,

forgetting, missing, fleeing something.