Banana Seat

We all had Schwinn’s

Back then.

It was the choice bike

And if you didn’t have one

You just weren’t in.

Some were cooler than others.

Some had wide flat back tires.

Some had shifters

Or steering wheel handle bars.

There was an array of 1970’s colors.

But your own 

Was the coolest

And we’d still talk shit about it.

Mine was metallic green.

I had a silver flecked

Sparkling vinyl banana seat

With chrome sissy bars.

I attached playing cards to the spokes

With clothespins

And sounded

Almost

Like Evil Knevil

As I pedaled

At high speed

Towards a homemade repurposed plywood ramp...

Younger prospects

To our group

Involuntarily lay below

In a line

Shaking nervously

Pissing their jeans.

Morgue rule.

Just past the ramp

As I flew over them

Not knowing what would happen

If I didn’t make it.

My bike was metallic green

With a sparkling silver vinyl banana seat.

It had to be pedaled.

In my mind

I made it over 

The Grand Canyon

To fanfare

With each jump

I made.

Engines roaring

From playing cards

Held to metal spokes

With wooden clothespins.

Black ribbons of fresh tire rubber

Peeling for ten feet 

Or more

Across suburban tarmac

Hot from the sun.