The red bike leans
against the fence, red
like the ribbon lost
and the face of the man
who asks for directions
on a summer Sunday afternoon.
He speaks loud
and soft,
over the grind
and chew of the lawnmower
her mother pushes.
All red
inside this car – red seats,
red carpet soiled,
red rooftop even. The engine revs.
The hands
reach toward the girl
crouched low
beneath the dashboard – low
enough to see streetlamps slice
the tops of trees…
So much red tape,
and the plastic pen holder clogged
with rubberbands,
and the big book
of photographs, no two books,
no four, and so many faces –
it is hard
to remember.
And the flashing badges
offer their advice,
It would be easier
on her to let it go. Really,
just easier to let
the whole matter go.
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