I took a last glance at moon glowing from the navy blue sky

and turned the bike around in the Checkers’ parking lot,

to be greeted with the sun just beginning to emerge

in the misty gray-purple sky now in front of me.

The moon behind, the sun afore.

It was like riding in poetry.

And I wished I was riding a noble steed through a desert windstorm.

But this is real life, not poetry.

The grit was blown into my face from a passing tractor trailer

as I rode my thrift store bike illegally on the side walk.

I thought it would be nice if the man walking stiffly in front of me

was a mysterious seer with scroll in hand.

But this is real life, not poetry.

The man was stiff because he was old, and he was carrying an unread newspaper

straight to the trash can in front of his house.

I arrived home, dismounted and crept into a house full of sleepers.

Late 30 something legs felt like jelly after that long ride up the last steep hill.

I was grateful the old legs could still carry me.

Moments later, the boy and the girl will have to be roused from bed,

but they are still small enough that their heads snuggle

perfectly into the hollow below my shoulder blade;

young enough that they still want to snuggle.

And I am glad that this is real life, not poetry.