Dare

27 Nov

The Snyder boys, a couple of years my olders,
take the brakes off a bike and teach themselves
to swerve down our steep street without crashing.
I refuse.  But they get me to bomb the wooded hill    
behind their house.  As I pick up speed, a bump
flops my beloved red crusher down over my face,   
turns the woody blur to black nothing
but hands on handlebars and wheels rolling
pine needles through deep space.  For two seconds
I consider myself the luckiest kid ever on a bike seat. 
I’m gonna make it, I believe, for the time it takes
to find a pine’s rough girth and fall back to earth.
The Snyder boys are there looking scared,
laughing, helping me up, checking the bike,    
and (best of all) telling me I must be frickin’ crazy.

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