Equal parts driven by ambition
and piledriven by alcohol,
the Drunken Cyclist
performs all his stunts—
from oblique to bleak—
smoking cigarettes.
“It’ll be O.K.,”
goes his mantra,
“if I get started.”
The Drunken Cyclist
goes like this:
Ten, twenty yards.
Slams the curb.
Takes a header. Swears.
Picks himself up.
Picks hisbike up.
Off balance—plainly,
visibly; succumbing to a far
stronger foe. Managing
gravity. Not managing gravity.
Briefly (barely satisfying
the Weightlifting Judges)
holds the bike over his head
like King Kong.
Throws it down. Disgusted. Swears.
Stumbles over to the pile of rubber,
paint-chipped steel,
chain and spokes, forgiving
this heap on the sidewalk—
close to tears now—
Picks hisbike up
(tough love)…
Slams it onto its wheels.
Drags it master-slave-like to the curb.
Again mounts up.
Instantly
takes a flying leap worthy of
cable TV off the sidewalk
into traffic.
How many drivers
on a Saturday night
outside the Horseshoe Tavern
are behind the wheel
stone cold sober?
One every five minutes?
And yet they manage to swerve around him,
to not run over the mess—
the Drunken Cyclist plus bike,
splayed, smoking & cussing in the road.
Glorious city!
Picks hisbike up. Returns to safety,
the sidewalk—pickle-strewn
from the hot dog vendor
who sells refreshments
at shows like these on this corner.
The Drunken Cyclist rests.
Lights a cigarette. Sighs.
Unbeaten. Crumples into his bike.
The Drunken Cyclist pauses.
The Drunken Cyclist naps.
Good night, Drunken Cyclist.