Another Friend Who Misses Her Dad

Her quiet presence
looms long
and lean—a shadow

cast nearing civil
twilight. Forty years
since she’s stood

before or beside
me, and still
I remember her

long hair the color
of unground coffee
beans. Her bangs. The fresh

laundered scent
she would leave behind
as she rode off on

her banana seat
bicycle through those wooded trails
behind our row

of houses. Some whispers
echo longer
into silver brilliance

than any shrill yelp
of a peacock at large.

Riding Through

Row and rows
of Indiana
corn was my first
real poem. According
to someone
who should know. Did she
really know
what I meant?
Did I? I did—
the ruts from banana
seat bicycle
tires remain.

Kokomo (Day 2,439: Take 2)

When I visit
my sister
next month, I will
think of you
still pretending 

your banana
seat bicycle
with string-ray
handle bars

is a horse.