A Small Friction [From BA 43-500]
A Small Friction
On days when
my fender’s on the tire
—I know I should fix it
the pleasant drone
that rises then falls with every rotation
sounds just like the hum and buzz
of cicadas
in the Midwest in the summer
when you can’t go outside
without hearing their song
everywhere
like heat.
There are no cicadas in Oregon
—or perhaps they’re just not as loud
since I only hear them
on my bike ride to work
on days when
my fender’s on the tire.
That is, until I hit a bump, the parts realign
and the only song I hear
is the wheels whizzing
the hub and axle in concert.
But on other days
when the fender hugs the tire too closely
after some distracted fix-it job
there are no cicadas.
Just an incessant whine
like a perturbed power line.
And I feel the wheel’s strain from the small friction
deep inside my bones.
And it’s funny how on those days
when the wind is so strong
you pedal like a zoetrope horse
stuck in stride.
And it’s your third day late for work
and your second of not caring.
And he won’t say it but you know that you are losing him.
You dismount to coax the metal from the rubber
with your idiot fingers.
And you almost cry
because you would do anything
to make that fucking
sound
stop.
And how on other days
it feels like the only cicadas in Oregon
are singing
just for you.