Learning To Ride A Bicycle
Date: 9/28/2012 10:49:00 AM
Should have happened long ago.
But you, you who had sex before you fell in love,
And you, who could afford a Keane concert before you could afford the album CD,
Dare not judge.
You, who had sex before you fell in love,
Watched and giggled into your thousand dollar phone while I struggled at the edge of a hill,
Pedalling one arduous circle after another,
And watched with the amused wonder we usually reserve for fifteen year olds claiming to be in love,
While I slid backwards, flipflopped left and right, emerged victorious and streamlined, and furiously pedalled into a bush because I forgot I had breaks.
You who asked me what the time was, watched me promptly plonk on my left bum because I couldn't resist a glance at my watch.
You oggled at the unladylike scars on my legs, a decade too late in the coming,
(Or at the unladylike hair, one can never be sure which)
Laughed at my belligerent AHOYs and palpitating OhMyGods evertime I saw an expectant mother or toddler in a five hundred yard vicinty,
And watched my writhe helplessly in pain when an ant had found it's way into my pants,
But all I could do is red-facedly brace it, eye on the tiger.
I won't lie, I admire you.
If you can ride a bike up or down a hill, make a smooth turn along a sharp curve,
Or manouvre on two wheels up and down a slope at a speed of your choice,
Yours sincerely is a huge fan.
And if you can ride with no handlebars, then you are my Greta Garbo,
My unattainable size two, my Mahatma if he had a six pack,
My picture perfect happy ending.
This poem is not a metaphor for something more significant.
All I'm hoping is that as long as we eventually fall in love and buy a Keane CD,
The order doesn't really matter.
Or wouldn't matter, if you didn't stand around and smirk so damn much.