In Which The New Year Blows Blustery

White holidays are back, and so begins
The long and messy slog back to the sun.
This last day of the year blasts off our skins
With bitter winds and cold. There's little fun
To be had out-of-doors tonight: streets of ice
Assure nothing but falls and crashes -- yet
I'm sure there's plenty whose pursuit of vice
And silliness will lead them out. I'll let
Them have my fun. It's home for me and mine;
Tomorrow's just another work-day. You
Who venture forth, do hoist a glass of wine
On my behalf, and I'll think of you, too,
Especially my far-flung loves. Someday
I hope to pass these times with you, some way.

In Which Some Mud Gets The Better Of Me

It rained last night, but that was long ago,

And there was little mud left I could see,

So while a certain wariness, I know

And in which I engage, is needed, the

Small lake within the tunnel did surprise

Me just a bit, but that was nothing to

What waited at its end, just where a rise

Begins, with a sharp curve to pedal through.

A sharp turn means my bike and I must lean

A bit; and just there where I did so, there lay

A mud slick. Ere I knew, my bike slid clean

Out from beneath me, yet, to my dismay

Still landed on me. Glad I broke its fall,

But now I hurt all over, overall.

In Which Is Considered Mile Marker 332

The interstate fogged in across the top,
Just me and near one hundred giant trucks,
We slow sometimes to something like a stop;
A wreck up here gets messy and my luck's
Been on a streak of awesome; if it runs
Out here I'm in big trouble. One mistake
However small, begets much bigger ones
As trucks crash into crashes. How I quake
Just driving past a milepost where once burned
So many trucks at such an intense heat
The pavement melted and eight people earned
Their tickets out of this life. Caution's meet
As I traverse the area; I've got
More now to live for than I ever sought!

In Which I Have A Tiny Panic Attack At Work

Alone here in a fishbowl, full of folk
Absorbed in work and play, ignoring me,
I suddenly can't shake or call a joke
The feeling that has made me want to flee:
Just weeks ago a jackass in a truck
Hit me on Deep Blue as I crossed a street.
Just days ago another tested luck -
The driver, texting, nearly made me meet
My newly-dead friend sooner than I'd planned:
Was head-on for me and swerved as I did
To miss. It seemed dead-certain that my grand
Time on this Earth was done. Did someone bid
Him look up? It's unknown. But now the sense
That something wants me dead, too, is intense.

In Which The Construction Gods Smile On Me At Last

Returned from Saratoga, lo, I find

That Dell Range Avenue is nearly back

To normal, on my eastern end. My mind

much eased by this, I failed to note that smack

Amidst us all, new traffic lights now hang

At Marble Avenue! So that is what

The mess was for? Illus'ry safety bang

In my own subdivision? That's great, but

I still won't fall for it, not on my bike.

Or in my car, or walking. Red or green,

They're still just symbols. Sure we all would like

To think they are preventive, but the scene

Just down the street at Converse surely proves

That head-in-ass is still how traffic moves.

In Which I Prepare To Cheat On My Love

Comes now the news: Deep Blue needs a new wheel,
Which won't be here 'till Thursday or perhaps
Wednesday if I am lucky. Do I feel
That way? I don't, not since my crash. Those chaps
At Rock on Wheels at least have found a way
To cheer me some: a loaner bike awaits
At yonder store. I feel that I betray
My love a bit, but man, I've got the shakes.
My bicycle is more than just my friend,
My ride to work, it's, too, my therapist,
Without whom I have gone right 'round the bend
Especially since fine weather does persist
That beckons so, a cyclists' siren song
I can't resist. Please tell me: is it wrong?

Who They Jivin' With That Cosmic Debris?

I'm no economist, nor engineer,
But something in the skies torments my brain:
While it's a given now that with the sheer
Amount of stuff we've launched outside our plane,
A lot of paths will cross in orbit, there.
But lately it just seems that there's too much,
Too many things to track; it turns my hair
Pure white to contemplate. It seems, as such
It might be time to start to do more than
Just bob and weave our stations, shuttles out
Of harm's way when collision threatens. Can
We not begin at least to think about
Removing at least some of it? Or - shock!
Designing craft that throw off much less schlock?