That’s the way, take those wheels and flee
half-mad houses belonging to your families,
voices shredding air with impatience,
the brass gong of them reverberating in
your pliant minds, echoing far past night.
(I hear it, too, their picking and blaming
escaping restraint like dogs let loose
into deep shadow, tunneling through dark.
But your houses squeeze tight within walls
with nowhere for grownups to go but
advancement toward each other.
Forgetting they were peacemakers,
ones who soothed, savored the good.
Worry warps them some, remakes life,
and it offers less room for love.
Oh, dear children, I see, I know.)
So there you go now, grabbing bikes,
are gone lickety-split with a wave goodbye.
Don’t parents know their danger is like a
hungry rat, how you’ve shuddered, hidden?
You need them to transform back into
their good, everyday selves.
But not all is ruined, not now or tomorrow as
you peddle and sweat into the bosom of hills
where there are no differences just giant trees,
wild blooms bobbing, hills rippling calm
with grassy green, and sky that blue
and unbreakable, a shield against possible rain.
Your friends call out your name
and you answer with theirs–
all is safe, all is sound as now peels
out the golden ring of laughter again.