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.