He sits on a bench, one hand
forest green, white face
furled, like paper ash,
shades of gray, framed in red
hair, his beard falling
bib of flames across
his charcoal jacket.

Looming like a black smokestack,
he is the worker, larger than life,
towering above the village,
gigantic beside the tree.

His brow presses heavily
downward, one eye blind,
the other, red as the stairs
leading to the door of his house.
His intense gaze forward.
He is not smiling. He is not angry.
He is not broken.

He is seated beneath a golden dome of scripture,
shining like the sun in his ghetto street.

Twenty nine years old,
12 years in minor leagues.
second with Washington,
one in Harrisburg,
one Columbus,

called up from triple-A Syracuse
today, Jorge Padilla from Puerto Rico
telephoned his Mom, to tell her
he was playing outfield, in
his first Major League game.

In this type of small suburbia
you rarely see
bicycle riders at night.

You will rarely see them
riding bikes at all, except
organized groups of riders
ushered by patrol cars
along the roadside,

flashing lights in day, official
regiments waving their arms in patterns

to slow oncoming traffic,
to block the road completely,

conservatively uniformed
patrolmen in long sleeves
unlike the cycling participants:

colorful neon stretch gear
and plastic helmets gleaming in the sun.

II.

It is an entirely different
experience to shine car headlights
into red reflectors of the solitary rider,
plain, dark, obscured by night.

III.

In town, I look through windows into warmly
lit rooms to see colorful walls, furnishings. Inside,
some rooms are occupied; others empty,
all seem inviting as I pass by.

I remember summer well, and bicycles at night,
aromas wafting from kitchens,
inebriated chatter, ringing of glasses,
sounds of silverware,
and music heard from the street,
as I continued look-Ma-no-hands,
combing the breeze, greeting

docks,
boats,
lights,
water,

and the sound of water slapping (tapping)
against the pilings; a view of an island in the distance.

IV.

In my neighborhood today, the best
bicycle ride is to the convenience store.
The road is narrow, and runs along the highway.
You will not get hit by a truck.

There is time for recreational dreaming;
time to slowly pass tall weeds,
Palmetto, flowering Mimosa,
Fire Rescue Station No. 70

until you swerve around pot holes,
near the other side of the carwash,
turn the corner to the disabled access ramp
and glide onto a small piece of sidewalk in front
of a large window draped with advertisements
for beer, cigarettes, and Lotto.