Riding through these streets,
I’ll record the words that come to mind,
Following that white line.
That red flashing light.
Turning to the left: Gone forever.
The passing words fly by, like each board on the fence post.
Stacked in line by design.
Waiting for that moment when someone looks inside and sees the point.
That oddly placed partial wall.
Colours. Primary colours.
Dictating our motion.
Constraining our turns. Our trajectory.
Telling me where to stop.
And where I can go.
Pedaling Prose 