Randy Streu

next to a mound of mud snow,
a bicycle: rusted red,
chain broken, seat stripped,
planted like a torn
and persistent perennial—

my cousin’s handlebars snapped
on him once, his stomach impaled
as momentum failed to carry him
over the spear of sheared aluminum;
he pushed his bike home one-handed,
the other held knuckle-white
over his t-shirt, sopping with blood—

the wet dust promise of rain mingles
mid-air with the sweet-and-sour scent
of cheap pot, and, for a moment,
i consider pushing the bike, like my cousin
did his 3-speed almost forty years ago,
the last two miles home,
to finish rusting in the garage.

Bio

Randy Streu lives and writes in Northeast Wisconsin, where he shares a home with his wife, kids, and cats. You can find his work in 3rd Wednesday, Field Wren, Dog Water, and elsewhere.