Now I hear, “Run, run, run.”
It is softly spoken to me by one who is near.
I run with him, pressing my weight
onto the handlebars of my bicycle,
in my mind, my rescuer.
We run as a group, six or eight of us,
a pod of whales in a rising sea of shadowy murk.
One of them, an ambulance man,
runs with me. He is there
to assist the hurt, the wounded,
but finds none. They are not hurt
this September morning.
They die or they live.
The ambulance man has no job to do.
But he is alert and takes note
of me as we hasten away,
fleeing the death-dealer,
not knowing where we will go.
He eyes my effort to push along the bicycle.
In a most polite way, he says,
“I suggest you leave that behind.”
Kind words of advice in a gentleness
that belies the Armageddon under way.
It is advice I do not take.
It never occurs to me to leave
the bicycle behind. I am convinced
that this simple machine
of ancient design will take me out,
take me in the true direction,
take me home.