Photo Credit: freerepublic.com
The world’s greatest tricycle rider
is in my heart, riding like a wildman,
no hands, almost upside down, along
the walls and over the high curbs
and stoops, his bell rapid-firing,
the sun spinning in his spokes like a flame.
But he is growing older.
His feet overshoot the pedals.
His teeth set too hard against the jolts,
and I am afraid that what I’ve kept from him is what
tightens his fingers on the rubber grips
and drives him again and again on the same block.
by c.k. williams
The New Yorker
April 2, 1966
by c.k. williams
The New Yorker
April 2, 1966
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