In the bike lane on the Foothill Expressway,
it was the same thing: I'd see
giant swarms of lycra-clad bicyclists
in anonymous, single-minded flight.
They ignored me, blew
right by me.
They made me want to become a terrorist,
tipping over the ones who balanced —
butts in the air, feet fastened to pedals —
at the red lights.
But what I really did was:
Pulled up alongside a man clad like a praying mantis
(Black-and-green lycra shorts, neon green jersey,
black almond-shaped helmet)
and said, "Does your mother know you go out dressed like that?"
forward anywhere lines