Wide Turns

A little poem I wrote in early spring and never published. Don't know why not, but need it now, so here it is.

Joy is a wide turn on a bicycle.

The rider, bald and pasty, spots
her as he loops onto Harcourt.
Smiles. Knows she feels it, too.

The crocuses, like morning after
women carrying folded dresses and
high heels barefoot, have emerged.

The outdoor cafes stretch with
midday men, who talk confidentially
about last night, or bank accounts.

And smoke. She does not. She means
To run. She is a mid-afternoon soul
Allowing the sun. As if it had asked.

He's forty-nine, maybe. His wheel
uncertain, hits gravel, wobbles. His
smile? Steadier than spring.