gears

the bikes go rolling
past the window
--and a stream of people
passes back and forth
in front of the counter
and I--
--I remember a dark, a night
that I passed beyond the window
into the shadows on the plaza
and across them, and the parking lot
in the heavy, sweating heat
and sometimes with snow
in the top of my boots
--and sometimes limping
and sometimes bent
under the weight of my bag

I remember skirting the light
pacing
and smoking
I remember twirling and jumping
around the planters
sometimes thick and green
and sometimes brown
and frozen,
with ice dripping from the eaves
and water dripping from the eaves
as the ice fell, glistening
in the fickle, capricious heat
of Spring

I miss
them, who saw me silent
who saw the first
faltering
words, mumbled
the creaking
and flaking
of the rust on my soul

burnished, has been blasted
to a dull gleam
along the tempered curve
of my back
now the quiet churr
of my moving
the slow clicking
of the gears
and axles

please, think that
--I
that I am thankful
that if I move
down strange avenues
head-bent and wander
down unfamiliar streets
that I--
remember the place

--where I sat under the window
while, you passing
and moving, while your breath
--then
slowly cleaned
and refitted the scrap

I did not want
to grind, like I did
to a halt
--not my intention
to carry the memory
of reassembly
nor, to be remade
by unfamiliar hands
from what was lying on hand

would not have chose it
--but as I move, friends
I carry the unmistakeable mark
of your unintentional work