Rider Tales
Part of me wants to hang out with the street cyclists.
Go back and forth on the women we’ve been through.
Or the one we didn’t make it to, you know the one?
Lying on my bike, legs spread out in the afternoon
heat.
Waiting on the next rider to regale with stories and questions like…
‘I came here back in 09’
‘You know I recognize you from somewhere, are your parents from…?’
‘Say, what do you think about this joke of a government ey?’
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‘My woman has been all over me to get circumcised, you think I should do it?’
‘You know I once rode Bobi to his home when the police were chasing him?’
‘This bike really isn’t mine, I borrowed it for the day, you see mine is still in the garage’
‘Hunh!!?? I didn’t catch that, say again?’
‘I am never signing up for Safe Boda, Uber Boda or any of those…
…can you believe they want my mother’s name, my woman’s name…heck they too want to know if I’m circumcised!’
‘You know I have a baby mama that my woman doesn’t know about, but some days I think she knows, you know?’
Part of me wants no part of this insanity.
Turning my nose up at their sweat-infused jackets.
Squinting my eyes half shut at their dusty helmets.
Zipping through the city when my just washed car
won’t take me where I’m going.
Mulling over the unfinished Dostoyevsky back at my house.
My rider interrupting my reverie with his half sentences as the wind blows through his mouth.
Stealing his would-be full words
Only his breath makes it to my nose telling the story of a speedily eaten rolex — Raw tomatoes and onions, you know the one.
The knot in my stomach ever tightening praying for my destination to come soon.
