Cycle

a tongue-in-buttock ode to a two-wheeled hunk-of-junk

    pi makes for a perfect circle, it's true;
    a perimeter for maximum area.

i gawp at the proportions and ratios;
the broad shoulders of your welded frame,
the gliding sprockets, your oiled teeth,
and the parallel lines of a determined shaft,
around which gears shift,
in a dizzying transmission of tireless torque.

our hearts race
as we fly in 2-dimensions.
our angular momentum,
a stabilising gyroscopic effect,
as we make hard turns,
trying to keep up with the winding speed
of each other's reckless love.

across borders of country and continent,
we tread a ringing path of peddles
   walking on air,
   on a balloon of contained wind
on a rolling stallion of liberating chains.

and when we have to drop the gears;
   because of a case of dangerous friction,
   the burning rubber,
   the slamming brakes;
i pull out my wrench.
because everything broken can be fixed.

baby, let me be your spokesperson,
let me wax your leather saddle.
let me slip through the human slalom,
and spin the threads of our matching cylinders,
lubricated with grease and fastidious toil.
let me pump your inner tubing,
so fast the air burns hot.

with blackened hands, with grazed legs,
i kneel at your spokes
to observe an exquisite revolution.

    every nut can be turned,
    every coil unwound,
    every ball bearing cleaned,
    and all that's lost can be found.