I curse the unknown owner

of the vintage Schwinn

with no kickstand I find, every

time, leaning on my Giant

Rincon in the corner of poison

pellets. Under one pedal

a mouse baby decomposes,

so small it has no smell. 

I roll my mountain trail

tires past the wagon, tandem,

trike, the sturdy brown Raleigh

three-speed of our super Esad

who just had his fourth child.

His wife wears a hijab

and says hi back when I

in my black mask say hi.