Eighty-five minutes on a beach bicycle
In a refreshing rain, searching, researching, re-con, retreats,
Against the grain, perpendicular, through paths,
Three streets, thirty seconds,
Thinking like a criminal…
Might
Onto the beach where there are in the vast horizon
two sets of clouds for my pleasure
The nearest is higher and stretches the entire canvas
Like a gray string of senseless cursive letters
taking the form of circus animals and profiles
attached, to the south, is a mass that carries
a storm which grumbles continually yet harmlessly.
Far, far beyond that group
are sporadically-placed cumulus cotton balls
that still enjoy the pleasure of the shining sun
Somewhere between those double clouds,
With wind and rain pelting me, my legs burning
My thoughts go to the heavens and farther south and west
And I ask myself the question, if I had a novel
that explores racial hatred and racial harmony,
would now be the best time or the worst time
To release it?
© 2016
Andrew Spradling 