Our bicycles are ready,
baskets full of peaches,
and thermoses of Canned Heat.
We blast Jamiroquai from a radio
generated by my wheels.
We make it to the hills by lunch.
Your glasses—they glint in the sunlight,
and your arms—how well they know
the knots in my back.
We peer out over canyons,
Baby Boomer biker gangs,
migrant farmers selling strawberries.
We pedal to the beach,
where plovers invite us
to stitch in the shoreline with our footprints.
The Gipsy Kings are interrupted by
a radio news flash:
George W. Bush has been lost in Katrina,
an ecological love affair powerful as Monica.
We can hear soldiers retreating
several oceans away—foxtrotting, now,
constructing libraries out of disarmed weapons.
In your glasses I can see it happen backwards:
a Kurt Vonnegut novel,
someone’s lost dream.
Together we eat peaches.