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Winning Poems: The Moods of Summer

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

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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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