There is no question of her cycling
Up the hill; she has no upscale concoction
Of carbon-fiber frame
And painstakingly engineered gear-ratios.
Her bike is a single-speed Schwinn
Of as uncertain vintage
As the woman herself,
And she walks it,
An occasional spoke missing,
The paint chipped here and there,
Up where she once climbed
In a ’54 Chrysler convertible
Next to the man
She later visited at the TB sanitorium
Which sat at the top of the street,
Two sons giggling and bickering
In the back seat—the boys
Long since gone, having fled
The snow and the downsizing
For other climes—but now
She peddles around Massey
And State Streets for a bit
Before she coasts back downhill,
And sometimes drivers glare
At her (she is, to be fair
Something of an impediment to traffic)
And carfuls of kids or soldiers in convoys
Headed up to Fort Drum
Will heckle her—Hey, lady!
The Tour De France was last month!
She no longer has any interest in
The stares or commentary;
She is focused on the bottom of the hill.