it’s suppertime
the kids are inside
toys and bikes stowed away
when your otherwise dutiful Mom
says
“No, we’re getting out the bikes”
“It’s a nice night”
so there you are
on a dead-end street
in front of your childhood home
on the pink bike your Bampa gave you
wind in sweaty hair
cheering on your sisters
and the next-door neighbor
in the long shadows
of a humid summer evening
on the night
when dinner
could wait
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