Today I Bought A Bike, 2026

today I bought a bike and nobody clapped

no trumpets, no neighborhood kids circling like satellites,

just cash handed to a guy who once held my same interest and lost it like a failed prophecy,

casually saying have a good one as if this wasn’t

a small resurrection of my legs.

the last bike I loved was thirteen years old

blue paint chipped like bad teeth,

handlebars bent from curb jumps and gravity experiments,

freedom then was a mile that felt like a continent,

a friend’s house glowing at the end of the block

like a promised land of Mountain Dew and unfinished homework,

pedaling away from my own name,

my mother,

my own room with its posters tacked into drywall hope,

in fonts too brutal to read.

today I am thirty-one and freedom costs cash and a lock

and a helmet I will leave at home and pretend not to need,

but secretly bless with a small prayer,

today freedom is not escape but arrival,

showing up sweating to a place on purpose,

my body reintroduced to itself

through thighs and breath and the honest complaint of realization that art handling isn’t necessarily working out.

no car, no bubble, no sealed capsule of radio and coffee cup holders,

no windshield to keep the weather from flirting with my face,

the cold asking questions on my cheeks,

the wind tugging at my jacket like it wants to be remembered or given the time of day,

the sun acting like an old friend who never moved away,

still warm, still nosy, still touching me without permission.

I am visible again.

my breath is visible.

my mistakes are visible.

missed lights, shaky starts, wobbling dignity at intersections,

drivers looking at me like I am either brave or stupid, or that it’s my sole intention and life’s work to delay a stranger’s commute,

and I can’t tell the difference anymore.

my body has to work.

this is the quiet miracle.

this is the unpaid internship of being alive.

knees negotiating with gravity,

lungs bargaining for one more block, 

heart drumming like it’s late for something important,

muscles remembering ancient contracts they signed before I was born,

fighting against my brain to wash away the memory of my first broken arm.

at thirteen I rode to get away.

at thirty-one I ride to be here.

to feel the street talk back to my tires,

to feel potholes as punctuation,

to feel my own weight as proof,

to arrive smelling like effort,

to carry weather on my skin like a temporary tattoo.

god bless David for the conviction to reclaim something like this.

today I bought a bike

and it is not a toy,

it is a small, rolling, yes.

to the world as it actually is,

loud, cold, bright, breathing,

asking me to participate.