Racing Wheels

When I was six

my father and I had a bicycle race.

“If you lose, I will leave you and go to work.”

The road was still wide

and the grasses wet with dew.

He didn’t wait nor let me win.

Twelve years later,

I grew tired waiting.

Laughter from children,

the sound I usually gave to father.

The leaves now dried and withered,

And smoke wafted around instead

of fresh breeze.

On my way home,

I saw father on the garage.

Old man invited me for a race,

my eyebrows raised but said ‘Yes”.

The race was already fair,

I thought;

My wheels keep on rotating, I drove with ease. Then, I’m four feet ahead.

I can win now.

But then his brows cross,

knees forcing to pedal.

The look of unconcealed pain

and failed determination

I once had when he won and left me.

He sweats beads of difficulty.

So I gently grip the brakes

and look at father –

I know you can keep up.

Tags: bicycle, brakes, breeze, father, home, kring, leaves, narrative poem, pain, poetry, racing wheels, road, smoke, waiting, years