re-administering my grip
on the handlebars
a light film on the bitumen
old men nurtured by thermoses
surveying the man-made lake
from the all-in-one picnic bench
dark green the same as an iron fence
between two good neighbors
what could I possibly say to you
to break the ice?
steam heading over the top
a lid unscrewed releases
another war of attrition
into the mist, Thursday beginning
trailing my white knuckles
one of the old men hoists his model boat
out the boot of his car with great care
as the others look on impressed;
last week when I rode past
the lake was being cleaned out
and I saw that without its dark water
it wasn’t very deep at all.