You can tell by the grease
on the right cuff of my khaki pants
that I ride a bike.
No flat-backed speed racer I.
Just a low-slung two-baskets-over- the- rear-wheel
1950's Schwinn cruiser,
fat seat to comfort my bottom,
my arms open wide like a ballerina
poised to turn
down magnolia-blossom-coated streets
past the cappucino hangouts serving drinks
with a cinammon-flecked froth as foamy as the water
lapping up against the pilings of the pier
on the Marina where on Sundays
I fly a two-handed kite with my eight-year-old son,
and we watch the seagulls following tourist boats:
picking through the flotsam
waiting for treasures to float up from below.