They gave me the bike without gears,
and told me to keep up
or I would probably get lost on the sweeping trail,
and I huffed mosquitoes and dry-sweat
a fetch behind them with a third of the crane
bungeed on the white street bike.
I think we’re getting really close! Nik called somewhere the
thick hemlock woods.
In miles the trail cut through someone’s field
of soybeans and weeds and a cavernous stone house
couched in a bed of weeds and the fallen roof, and we tossed
the four bikes
to the sunbathing flies for a look.
Yeah, we’re getting really close he remembered.
I suffered under the sun and my sodden jeans,
And wondered where or if they packed a drink.
Nik wanted to film something in the house, but before he
could invent a reason
the owner stumbled out of the field and shooed us.
Not too far away he said.
The lake
was a duckshit pond and a dock raft
deep into Carry
for blisters on my legs
and gnats in my eyes.
and we drank a root-beer cream soda
and opened a bag of chips,
and turned around
because no one remembered
what we wanted to film.
