The streets are avenues of eyeballs,
dips, dives and detours divert my path,
a Ford Focus halfway out the driveway in front of me,
the garbage truck polluting the air around me
while we wait for the light,
sections of sidewalk,
sections without,
a bike lane here,
but not there,
the little girl staring at me from the back seat
and the trashcan next to the telephone pole
leaving a sliver of sidewalk
I'm too uncoordinated to navigate,
and worst of all,
the wind is blocked by vehicles and suburban living.
A treacherous road, I keep pedaling
in hopes of reaching
my el dorado,
my eight fold path,
my restored eden.
Where cars are defined as trespassers,
the wind blows like the spirit,
going where it goes,
an elderly man flies a kite up above us,
a pair of mormons journey to the next territory,
and rebellious teenagers practice popping wheelies
on their dirt bikes and ATVs,
the homeless' real estate,
mobile homes popped up under concrete bridges,
no traffic lights, street signs or any type
of halting measure for my transportation,
the oil refinery is bustling with noises
coming from procedures I'm clueless to,
a plane lowers its altitude as I imagine
the pilot putting the seatbelt light on
in preparation for landing,
the water rises while I close
the distance between my wheels and the sand,
the vegetation now towering and spreading
in abundance,
lizards scuttle across the path and
squirrels hop in and out of the grass like dolphins.
I peddle through the riverbed
breathing at ease,
for this is the home of many,
where freedom is cherished
and the road is open like an invitation.