Everyday you test gravity.
You charge the steep hill on your ’57 Schwinn.
You fly for awhile, Standing as you pedal, getting into it.
Cars pass you by
You pass by parked cars.
The grade slows you down. And then you can’t
go anymore. You could cut across the paved hill
Weave back and forth to climb higher,
but you’re not ready for that.
Everyday you take it straight on. Get a little further.
Yesterday, the green house with the white rock lawn.
Today, the periwinkle mailbox.
You stop, astride your ride, heaving, breathing heavy
Precious sweat dripping down your face, under your shirt,
On your chest, a faint recollection.
Strength a distance memory.
A periwinkle mailbox.
What you need.
You wonder who paints their mailbox this fanciful color?
They wonder who rides an old bike up a steep hill?
Everyday we test gravity.