perfected the touchdown
bruises bloom like flowers through the tumble
but the end is glorious
shedding the skin of an old century
like a dusty suit that needs to be cleaned before it can be hung
oh so the special ones now
far beyond the wrinkles and idiocy of those others
they who know so little
or so we have been trained
the scrapes on the body from the slide down the hill
a few deep cuts and maybe a crack in a bone
my bicycle is wasted to the side one wheel spinning
my eyes rest on the clouds so indifferent above
the generation packs it knowledge and takes it with them
leaving behind the engines and fires
and the dirt and decay
no generation can be different – it’s all always their fault –
the old ones – the wrong ones –
they who took advantage and gave nothing –
all their fault.
I’m the one who failed to notice.
I’m the one on my back.