It is the last uphill –
my face flushed; the sun is all akimbo in the trees.
Bike pulls against slope and those tendons those joints
that until now laid under skin uncomplaining
tell me how they are in flickers of pain
pushing up then pulling down gravity unrelenting –
when the goggle man appears flowing downhill like river falls
he is henchman to the hill pull;
is the harbinger of summit –
he almost wears a cape
and he never smiles.
poemation 