At the intersection
near Odeon
a man on a red
bicycle straddling
the hot black
pavement leans
forward and shakes
out his long blond
hair. It’s not good
hair, its undersides
the color of river
slurry, tips a yellow not made
by nature. But morning
light catches it
as he tosses
the remaining wet
of his recent shower
to the street, flings his
head back and gazes up
at the sun, like an ’80s
rock god just before
bursting into a guitar
solo. Crosstown traffic
slows, then stops, and he
pedals off, leaving a damp
halo behind, some
of the light.