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20 years later even the pavement feels the same.
So what if the whooshing wind rustles duller, drabber hair?
The scabby knees are no longer a badge of honor, but hallmarks of clumsy adulthood.
An adulthood found almost by accident....
And despite any outrage, "if-I-don't-see-it-it's-not-there"
or last-ditch tantrum.
The legs work, the wheels turn,
The body moves ahead on the bicycle.
Heedless of the traffic,
the noise,
And the angry co-worker
And the missing newspaper
And the terrorists and the curdled milk
And the grayness of the immediate world.
What then is the price for freedom, however fleeting?
A pair of scabby knees
And a grin as wide as the bike path.

End.