Agony

I wrote this poem.




The girl at the bike
shop's hair is very short, and her nails
are always dirty; even
first thing in the morning.
By evening, some of that grease will
be on her face as well.


Her dog glares at me from under
the workbench. I think he knows
what I'm doing there, although
the girl seems oblivious.
Seems to see only
the bicycles.

Today she's wearing a skirt
under her shop apron
and I'm telling her about
the agony
I felt on the last hill
in the last race.
"Perhaps that new Orbea"... I try,
hoping to impress her.



She laughs, unimpressed. "You don't
need a lighter bike to get
up that hill," and pats her flat belly
suggestively.

My own has
grown lately, developed during long
nights spent not
on the bike
but on a bar stool,
thinking of her.