because of Steppenwolf, I ride my ten-speed

from Christchurch to Ashburton

but really—

ironically—I pedal my pedals towards outskirt-silence.
if I’m honest with the wolf-o-the-steps

it is for the outskirt-silence

howling,

scoff of cogs and wheels, aspiring—
seeking the wanting, wanting the seeking

& almost there . . .I rise,

rise to the work

rise in the morning to the rivet, the rivets—
then I hear the creak of a picket fence by a creek—

its timbre tuned, polished & raw—

its voice—if I’m willing to rub a few kind words

together—sirens a welcome but never lets me in.
so, I quit and dump the bike—

the only spine holding my frame erect

creaks

beneath my skin still—
whimper of the wolf; calcium of the will.