Spinning

 

In the strange garage of the old French

house, I found a stationary

bicycle, the pedals

loose, the seat a hard

plastic wedge.

 

Every morning

I rode, spinning nowhere

as I read novels

in a language

I can barely speak.

 

One the story of a woman

with horrible neighbors.

I still don’t know

what they did to her.

 

Outside, the holiday August

weather full of sun

and particulate matter.

In the garage, gloom

through a leaded window.

 

My husband would

hike in the forest,

along the ridge,

come home with tarts,

juice, tales of the baker’s

daughter with the big smile.

 

Over coffee, I’d have no stories

he wanted to hear,

my thoughts on home

and how once we got there,

I would leave him.