It’s like riding a bike; you never forget,
but the pedals are consonants
and the wheels are vowels
and you make your way up hill
by putting one word behind the other.
Today, I could write for miles
along the margins,
between the lines,
from one side
of the page
to the other
and back again.
The wind’s behind my chair
and beads of ink are forming
on my hands as I wave
just before I crest the stanza
shouting, “Look! No erasers!”
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