Letting Go of the Handlebars
I’m running out of options. I’m running out of steam. I’m running out of checks and balances, fast moves, I’m bending over funny. I leave the house with my shoes untied. I dream of young sex. I smile at strangers. I start out to go somewhere and nine times out of ten wind up somewhere else. I know too much to rate a first-class funeral.
Leonard Cohen moved to the USA to make money, and now we call him savior. Such are the small details that tell the whole story.
The boxer with heart winds up punch-drunk. The smart fighter gets the women. The mercenary levels the playing field.
There’s so much I need to let go of before it rains manna from heaven. Before the slate is wiped clean. Before angels dance on a pin head and all the veils fall away.
Now let go of the handlebars my father called after me when he let go of the bike seat once I’d picked up some speed. I did, and crashed to the sidewalk.