Once when I was about twelve my mother
astonished me by getting astride my bike,
the heavy old balloon-tired Schwinn
I used for my afternoon paper route,
and pedaling away down our block,

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her hair blown back, skirts flying,  
a girl again in the wind and speed
that had nothing to do
with pulling double shifts at the hospital,
or cooking meatloaf, or sewing up my jeans,

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my old workhorse carrying her away
from my father dead of booze, 
her nightly bottle of red wine
in front of the news. 

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She flew down the street so far
I could barely see her, then
slowly pedaled back to me
and stepped off the bike, my mom again.