Do not get caught in the spokes of a bike, do not even dream about it. Don't wear pants when you use your ten-speed because you might image the hem being bitten by the wheel and then you're as good as caught.
But our bikes are all put away now, hanging from L-hooks on the garage wall, the front tire still spinning as voices climb the porch stairs to dinner. There is one that goes back and fro, to and forth, still, between 22nd and 23rd avenues, I see the wheels flash in the outstretched lumens of the street light. They flash twice, wink wink, like they know me. It's always the same two wheels, the same one bike, wink wink.
When I spoke, I said, "Na uh." Na, a song refrain. Uh, the shortest vowel in the English alphabet after i. And me, only five feet tall.
Because when the wheel stops spinning the reflector catches a piece of the red sun coming in through the dim window and the light hits the red car and a scratch in the paint where I got too close to a 2005 Ford Explorer and left matching scars on our bodies. His big one and my little one. Two marks on our bodies, wink wink. And I am only five feet tall.
