By J.J. Tindall
Bike on a Tightrope
Mid-summer sun almost directly
overhead makes a shadow
of telephone lines, like
a black tightrope,
right down the center
of a neighborhood alley.
Like a prism, perspective
tapering slightly upward,
this tunnel of blue-white light,
this circus of air,
welcomes the leisurely biker:
more kids, less cars, privileged
as though backstage
at an open air theater.
The alley is straight
but not flat, concave,
angling up and out from center
to channel rainwater, white concrete
patched with grey asphalt,
redolent of silver dust.
I concentrate on keeping the wheel
on the shadow line as though
biking a tightrope.
To stray is failure,
but not disaster. There is fail
but no fall. I can indulge
in false bravery!
A trick of the mind,
another means of distraction
while running errands,
momentarily free from
folly, fugues and funerals,
crushing regrets between wheel and shadow,
manufacturing fresh dust.
Trying for perfect balance,
riding the lines like
sentences in black ink
on a white page, often
two or three lines curving
and intersecting.
On either side, garages
like trailers for the circus folk,
or terracotta warriors
on eternal watch,
creating a false gauntlet,
another imaginary threat
conjured in the midst
of the all-so-real.
In control
of a make-believe world,
pretending to overcome,
all the while wondering
what the telephone lines are for
anymore.
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J.J. Tindall is the Beachwood’s poet-in-residence. He welcomes your comments. Chicagoetry is an exclusive Beachwood collection-in-progress.
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More Tindall:
* Chicagoetry: The Book
* Ready To Rock: The Music
* Kindled Tindall: The Novel
* The Viral Video: The Match Game Dance
Posted on August 7, 2017