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, Continue reading
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, Continue reading →
Tags: bicycle, brakes, breeze, father, home, kring, leaves, narrative poem, pain, poetry, racing wheels, road, smoke, waiting, years
“And They Say…”