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