A Florida bike ride one sunny April morning.
Woke up on a Monday feeling sort of boring.
Cranium filled with conundrums and humdrums.
I finally drug my reluctant rear into the sunshine.
Turning from the neighborhood of worries, going east.
Atlantic breeze chilled by seas cooling trees filling me.
Dry wrinkled skin gulping the water fountain of Vitamin D.
Coming up over a rise. Stretching out my feet, it’s time to fly.
In blue paper sky, a black soaring tilde in your love letter.
Above, new lime leaves do the wave in the super dome.
Palm trees, skinny punk rockers with spiked green hair stare.
At electric snowflakes in the air, hoping to land somewhere.
In forest pines each morning an orchestra for passersby.
Feathered virtuosos, no one will ever know, doing concertos
Staccato sixteenths from beaks, triplet runs, and beats.
But no arrangement here. It’s jazz that moves the feet.
Oh the feet, the happy feet are moving, riding in the shine.
Why sit and stare at mold in the Frigidaire, and try to care
If you’re in Florida on an April Monday, looking at the end
Hope you’ll get outside and find a bike ride for medicine.