Wheel after wheel rolls down life's highway. From the small rubber rounds that were wrapped around the tricycles wheels, two small ones in the back, one large in the front, we could ride that long haul with bare knees flashing, with scrapes and gashes and dirt from the days gathered up in our canvas shoes, soles burned off from sliding on gravel roads.
Finding the bicycle, we sped off on two wheels, gathered ourselves up on banana seats, tall handle bars, stingray bodies, and even little tails of bright colored plastic strips we would tear out of the boys bike, but the girls ran so proudly. Quick and fast, easy to turn, it would ride us through til teen age years, the seats only splitting if it we left it outside, for the rain and cold to work their evil selves upon.
Tractor and cart, like digging into the past, found its way underneath us, the separation from one to another adding the years, til we were settled handling the power of its roll, and the wheels that left us wanting to ride it smooth, and settle the roughness beneath us, til one day we looked; the grandchild was on that trike, riding it as fast as he could go, trying to spin, wanting to slide, looking at us, seeing us riding the great beast of burden.
Ralph Peck
Photo by Ralph Peck
South of Claremore, Oklahoma
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