Spokes shadowbox sidewalk chalk. Blurs dress nouns. With adjectives. Dadaist-caulked windows make. Faces at coughing dump trucks. And SUV-trapped little shits. Dry up! Come clean! Sweetie! Written across the back of her jersey. Vertigostrums stygian darkness on principle. A glint in the eye. Of a passerby on a good day. Or a rusty lunchbox keeps fresh. Pebbles scribble anagrams. As she takes stock. Of things still. Walls and boxcars strum. Parataxis in colossal letters. That speak from beyond the grave. Or sorts. Gosh. Even daredevils spit. Bugs once in a while. The saddle brings its own. Subtitles. Pedals, life. The coolness of trees. Spikes. Like nobody’s. Business. She saddlebags an ear. For good measure.
Renoir Gaither writes from St. Paul, Minnesota. He has most recently published poems in Yellow Chair Review, Third Point Press, and After the Pause. His book reviews appear frequently in Rain Taxi. Renoir works in an academic library, pedals a bicycle, and crate digs for old vinyl records. He holds Master’s degrees in English and Library Science.