Workshop Try

Exercise
Our gravel road
is steep to the point of
hallelujah.
We ride bikes – the neighbors say –
towards the grass shoulder,
and you alert me to a new notion:
grass is slippery – watch out for
cows.
Sometimes
neighborhood kids
grab our spokes, the chain-rings
piercing their hands.
I say it reminds me of Christ;
you assure me I’m being
myopic.
And when it rains, I’ve promised
to always put a bucket
(you prefer “metal pail”) at the end
of the ruts made from
larger tires than ours.
We can drink
at last,
but I can only ever
find a Dixie cup to collect water.