Taking a nap after a ride
Lying here on the couch with a stomach full of pancakes and chocolate milk.
The window next to me lets in the gloomy sight of an overcast sky, pissing intermittently onto a canopy of shingles and dangling orange and yellow leaves.
My legs are heavy and sore from the first week of jumping, lifting, and riding.
A gray cat, unaware of me watching behind the glass wall, creeps up into the lawn and takes a dump on the grass—still brown from a summer of heat.
I listen to the crackling of the fire and the sound of Pumpkins Smashing as I lie on the couch from decades past.
The candidates are arguing, the Iraqis are dying, and the hot dog vendors are seeing their breath for the first time in months.
Sheryl Crow is constantly telling me to soak up the sun but no rays can be found.
I’m homeless and my minimum wage paycheck is weeks late.
The stolen bike is sitting in a meth lab, restless like an un-ridden horse.
The fire continues to pop and the songs change.
My cell phone rings but I don’t pick it up because my stiff legs are happy to sleep.
They lay motionless on the gray cushions, blood pulsing down to the damaged muscle.
Throbbing and comfortable as my heart rate beats slower and slower.
Eyelids are gaining weight and gravity begins to pull.
The small room is warm.
The rain thickens outside.
A blue jay sits on the telephone wire holding a nut for the long winter ahead.
The jay swoops down to the ground to break open his lunch.
The journalist hopes for disaster, but the gray cat is gone.
Blue and purple flowers wilt and fade.
The gray cat walks past on the sidewalk, a dead rodent in mouth.
I can see eight parked cars, two mobile homes, and thousands of pounds of cement laid out on the ground from where I lay.
I am in a suburb.
I don’t see any people.
I don’t care because.
My steed lies against the wall, mud drying and water dripping in puddles from his brilliant orange coat.
My wet cycling gear is lying in front of the fire.
The room smells of peanut butter and spices.
My head sinks further into the pillow.
The battlefield is finally at peace.
There is much to be rebuilt.
Amino acids and HGH rush in to save the day.
The cat carelessly leaves the dead mouse under a car.
A new pig sets up his office.
The Iraqis continue to burn alive, their charred skin blistering and popping in the flames of petroleum terrorism.
The coals cool in the solemn stove.
My eyes close.
Mind clearing.
I sleep and rebuild.
KENNETT PETERSON 