Bicycle Man

The bicycle man
rides slowly by.
Painted frame
of his chariot,
lime green today,
carries his slightness
and all the weight
of his unconvention.
Pedals and pulleys and
gravity and gears
work the rise and fall
of the wings,
one on each side,
fashioned of wire frame
and feathers.
Trumpeting Victrola rides
royally on the back;
pumping feet provide
the revolutions needed
to release the melody.
Handlebar horns
and bells, all kinds,
honk and ring
in a symphony
of clownsong.
While we watch
from behind
our draperied window,
he stands,
one leg on the seat,
the other
extended out behind him
in a bicycle ballet.
My mother says he's crazy.
But I have seen his smile
and I don't think so.

Mary Ellen Seidel
5/2/2002