To the Bicycle Rider, 5:58 PM

On the northeast corner,
I saw you trying to jaywalk,
holding that huge cement block
of metal and needle-thin tires,
your head stuck in it,
a disfigured cake mold
floating across cracked white linens.
You Frogger hop
across the intersection,
puppet-stringing your arms
to keep any life left in them.
As you head to the generically
named coffee shop,
they stop to watch
you play human dodgeball with cars.
Your helmet flops around
on your head, like a baby bird's
nest during a storm.
Somehow, you made it.