On the saddlehorn mounds
— Smell of pampas burn —
Wheelies fling through air —
One foot, no foot, no hands —
Contortions of bicycle and man —
The other riders would rather towel snap
Than praise — they watch the physics
Like disinterested scholars ...
But one man
Talks to everyone, the only professor in this
Living classroom. He offers tips, critiques,
Standards that seem in his way of telling to be
Laws. Fearless youth become in his guidance
A sober crew. They gain the mark of a tribe
Gifted and cursed with a light on what's right.
The bikes paint dust in circles
Through the blue afternoon
And it is almost by accident I see it:
The bent tires and pizza boxes
In a canopy inside the woods,
Faded blankets and garish shirts
Strewn across the soft green floor
Where a teakettle and candles also lie,
Commemorating some departed mind.
A woolen hoodie hangs over a branch
In late-afternoon gold, and over all
That smell, the tell-tale marker
When the one who lives here
Is invisible.
