1940
When he saw my 1940 Humber bicycle with rod brakes
and leather and horsehair saddle, and men holding
hands in the chainring, circling the maypole
of the bottom bracket, he ran his crooked fingers
over the thick black enamel of the top tube; he pressed
the plunger of the brass bell with his thumb. He said
he jumped bomb craters on a bike like this
during the Blitz, delivering messages for the police
when the wires were cut and the sirens screamed.
His mother needed 66 coupons for canned food;
when he turned twelve it took 12 extra coupons
for long pants; if his feet grew, another 5 coupons
for shoes. 18 for a suit. But who got a new suit?
The rich had well-appointed basements
and country homes; the poor took the bombs.
He carried a hatchet with a fireman's pick
to dig through the rubble. It had a rubber handle
in case he struck raw copper. He followed the screams
down through the bricks and splinters and plaster lath.
If he found a body he wouldn't say. When he got home
his mother would hold him; he would wash
if there was water; then slip on his thin leather
dance shoes and tights and plie, and releve,
and saute; he wanted to be Frederick Ashton,
or Margot Fonteyn, for all I know. Later he had a son,
and danced in the Royal Ballet. I think of him often,
my friend Peter Franklin White, when my roadster hits
a pothole, or the Neo Nazis march in Charlottesville.
When he saw my 1940 Humber bicycle with rod brakes
and leather and horsehair saddle, and men holding
hands in the chainring, circling the maypole
of the bottom bracket, he ran his crooked fingers
over the thick black enamel of the top tube; he pressed
the plunger of the brass bell with his thumb. He said
he jumped bomb craters on a bike like this
during the Blitz, delivering messages for the police
when the wires were cut and the sirens screamed.
His mother needed 66 coupons for canned food;
when he turned twelve it took 12 extra coupons
for long pants; if his feet grew, another 5 coupons
for shoes. 18 for a suit. But who got a new suit?
The rich had well-appointed basements
and country homes; the poor took the bombs.
He carried a hatchet with a fireman's pick
to dig through the rubble. It had a rubber handle
in case he struck raw copper. He followed the screams
down through the bricks and splinters and plaster lath.
If he found a body he wouldn't say. When he got home
his mother would hold him; he would wash
if there was water; then slip on his thin leather
dance shoes and tights and plie, and releve,
and saute; he wanted to be Frederick Ashton,
or Margot Fonteyn, for all I know. Later he had a son,
and danced in the Royal Ballet. I think of him often,
my friend Peter Franklin White, when my roadster hits
a pothole, or the Neo Nazis march in Charlottesville.
©Daniel Dahlquist