by Bob Brussack

Of all the billions of frames of my life,
Why does the guy in the booth
Rerun for me so often, unbidden and unpredictably,
A five-second clip, without sound or voice-over,
Of me at eight-or-so,
In the late afternoon of a school day in the spring,
Aboard my red two-wheeler --
Not fire-engine red, but not as dark as burgundy --
With a perfect chrome headlight,
Gliding down the gentle slope of Willets Drive
Past our house,
A breeze on my face and hands,
My soul suspended a few feet above the world?

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