27 July 2024

Cycling into the storm drain.
I am going back, alright?
The rear wheel grips the dirt.

Crunch.
Squawk.
Squeak.

Tap tap tap—splat.

Crunck.
Crack.
Squeak—
Crack!

Roll, undulate, ululate.
Late. I am late!

Whoosh, slosh, slurp, slip.
Ring, slip-ring, slippery.

I don't know if it's cicadas or just in my head.
Projecting sounds from within my mind.

How much of it is me and not me?
How much of it am I interpreting
to create a stable, unified image?
Something that coincides with my categories.

Am I too late?
Oh, never mind, my darling, I will not hold my breath!
I was always late for school.

I love riding my bicycle.
I have a big head and goggly eyes.

What was I made for?