so you walked
your "All-Steel" bike between us
as we talked
ourselves onto the left bank of the Charles,
threading the homeward traffic as it flashed
subliminal advertisements of motion
of the dented ego that it passed.
Your spokes spun chromium pipedreams in the sun.
My head was spinning. Four months before,
I barged into your parents' store
of privateered Heppelwhite and pewter,
a free-wheeling pirate in a hoard of plunder,
and commandeered your mother when I hit
the never-before-guessed age of the wallpaper.
Even if I tried, I couldn't miss
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