In the clumsy countryside
bicyclists fell at one of twenty four speeds.
Unaware of this I traveled cross-country
on my Trek manufactured in Waterloo, Wisconsin.
I got confused by the lack of street signs
and turned into a long silence.
This disorientation landed me in front
of a cafe where angels roosted on the roof.
One of them served me tea.
She spilled a few drops on the wing-swept floor.
Before I ordered eggs over easy
she reminded me when she flies high
all of us bicyclists look like insects
navigating asphalt ribbon.
She put her foot down for emphasis
and I decided not to think out loud.
The syrup amplified the hotcakes
to the point where I could not hear the bacon sizzle.
The angel followed me outside from the register
and jerked my handlebars up to a thirty degree angle
so I might clear the unexplained and inexplicable divide
filled with betrayals of love.
I pedal into the sky rising like a moth
thinking the sun is as close as a street lamp.
copyright © 2022 Kenneth P. Gurney