We ride the ribbon at the edge of things
white line, gravel, guttered glass
legs turning small revolutions
against the empire of engines
We are not asking for parades
Just three feet
Just a moment of your patience
measured in heartbeats instead of horsepower
But you come like weather
A roar in the spine,
wind that slaps the ribs,
metal grazing air so close
it steals the breath from our lungs
You pass as if we are cones
as if the law is a rumor,
as if our bones are suggestions
Sometimes you cut in early
right hook, left cross,
forcing us to swerve into sand and storm drains,
into the soft shoulder where balance
becomes a prayer
And when we do not vanish quickly enough,
you lean on the horn
or roll down the window
to throw your words like bottles
Get off the road
Pay taxes
Learn to drive
As if the road were your inheritance
As if our thin tires
did not also hum on asphalt
paid for in sweat and hours
You do not see the calculus we carry
escape routes,
mirror glances,
the subtle shift of weight
that keeps skin intact
You do not see the families
stitched into our helmets,
the names we whisper
when a truck drifts too near
We are not saints
We curse into the wind
We memorize license plates
We ride home shaking
and call it a workout
But still we return to the shoulder of morning
clip in,
push off
Because there is a freedom in the turning
a stubborn joy in forward motion,
a quiet defiance in choosing
muscle over motor
All we ask
is space enough to live
Three feet of mercy
A lane change made with thought
A recognition that we are not obstacles
but people
balanced between gravity and grace
trusting that you will pass
like a decent storm,
wide and gone
Cheeky Monkey Poetry 