City Bike Trail

My bike would be tan,

A wicker basket in the back,

With rough, bouncy black wheels–

Long and slender like its frame, 

Which would stretch like a cat

After basking in the afternoon sun.

A bike that you’d see in old-fashioned movies,

Or beach scenes where characters

Would ride around on boardwalks

Without a care in the world

As fireworks thunder above them

In supernova style:

Bright, brief, and only a faint memory

Once they fizzle out.

With my bike, I’d take to the city.

Some say that an urban sprawl is the killer of life,

But I think that it’s the work of Prometheus.

It follows a routine:

In the mornings, it starts with a bang,

The sound of deafening construction 

Scraping at one’s ears;

The beeps and honks of cars in traffic

Trying to merge onto a four lane highway

In five seconds going 55 mph.

In the afternoon, it takes a nap,

The sun at its zenith as Apollo makes his arc on his chariot,

The clinking of forks at an afternoon brunch in Midtown

Or the swirling of spoons in a bustling coffee over in the East.

At three, the cars have made their return,

Usually departing from Downtown to Brentwood,

Screaming that they don’t know how to use roundabouts.

We sent people to the moon, how could we not

Learn how to use something all over Europe?

Radios blast as commuters sing their hearts out,

Off-tone as they may be —

Or do people even listen to the radio?

The nights are filled with light from apartment building windows,

Condos that try to emulate sleek wood-style bungalows

Or copy old brick houses;

Residents walking their dogs as if they’re on a conveyor belt

And couples staring out at them from their homes

Wondering where all these transplants came from.

California, probably.

Knowing this cycle, I’d take my bicycle,

And run it through the veins of my hometown.

It’d be hard, since it’s crisscrossed

With interstates and potholes,

But a local like me

Would know all the sidestreets to take.

Well, maybe most of them–

My mom would know better.

I’d start downtown, then second guess myself.

The roads are hilly,

Full of honky tonks, bachelorette vehicles

(yes, I’ve seen a hot tub),

And wannabe country singers.

They’ll call out to you

In their Maenadian drunken splendor

And get you to dance

While you sit on your high school steps

And wait,

Pleading with time,

That your dad comes soon.

But it has the best museums,

And tiny restaurants that are trying their best

To make their own American dream come true.

You’ll root for them, knowing that

They might be gone next time you come home.

Bellemede is where the mansions are,

And I’d probably look poor even passing through there.

Her sister, Belleview, is vast, with open fields and forests to hike.

I’m not into mountain biking,

But I am into South Indian food.

Dosa calls my name every time I’m out there.

If I’d want to go east,

Where all the coffee shops are,

The hipsters discussing the records

Of an indie band with five listeners on spotify,

All over eight dollar lattes,

Then I’d have to cut through Whitebridge and Charlotte,

And midtown again,

All feeling like stumbling out of molasses.

I wouldn’t be able to cover it all in a day,

Despite Hermes’ blessing,

Or my ill-planning.

But I at least know places

Where the people know my name,

Where the best parks are,

Where to spend too much money on art supplies,

Where people fought for their right to exist.

Do these new people know?

Moving here

After a tornado swallowed up the homes and dreams

Of so many neighborhoods?

After waves of a pandemic

Drowned seemingly immortal mom-and-pops?

It’s impossible to kill a god,

So I guess it’s hard to kill this city,

But I think they came pretty close to it,

With all the houses starting to look the same,

Where cookouts slowly become less and less frequent

To the point of no grill at all.

Where rent costs over a grand a month,

To get you a one bedroom and a bath apartment.

You look and you see

People wear merchandise of your town,

The one you traveled around on your bike,

Like it’s a brand–

Which it is, to some extent–

But it’s not the brand you knew when you were younger.

I think, though,

That there’s optimism in the air.

For those who’ve lived here their whole lives,

They want to keep it–

Not like it was in their memories,

But see it grow.

Idols are told “don’t forget me” by us mortals,

And I’m sure that we won’t let our city

Forget us too.

Memorialize us in museums, 

But know we are not yet gone.

Our histories still breathe with resilience.

Think of us when you build your new townhouse by Fisk,

Or try a “trendy international place” on Nolensville Pike.

If we are the Athens of the South,

Then why can’t newcomers learn about our history?

Where are their bikes to ride along our roads?

So I’d arrive home,

Take my bike up the wooden stairs,

Past the patio and into the house,

Placing it against the wall in the living room,

Ignoring the mud tracks on the floor.

I’d go upstairs,

Take my shower,

And walk carefully back down in my socks

So as not to slip,

Gazing at this bike,

And wonder what it’d be like

If I could ride one.