blue bike 

bicycles with no riders
cluster together in packs
rushing through down my street 
at 11pm making squawking goose sounds
a flock of them 
searching looking for others
i pear glance out the window
to watch view them
all different types: 
tricycles
ones wearing with training wheels
old rusted face flat tire bikes
beautiful white wall tire pastel pink ones 
their owners have to miss need them
i think remember my own bike 
with the shiny blue body
and bell we fixed screwed to handlebars
the noise chirp it made 
as i rushed road through alleyways in town
& back up to my gravel driveway 
i wonder ponder if my blue bike
ran away escaped with a pack of bikes
like the one that comes through
my street at night
i check scan the pack closer 
with the idea i might see my old blue bike
that i might convince persuade 
the bike to come home
& sit lay in my living room
while i tell speak stories to the bike
about how much i loved adored it 
all those years
changing shifting gears
to make it up the big hill by
the playground 
laying resting the bike
down in the grass while
i played wallball against on 
the brick back of the high school building
i imagine think it's contagious
the bikes tell teach each other
one by one
that they can move with no rider 
and soon enough they're following going
with the group
all the bikes laughing chortling
in the street
my street each night around 11 
and everyone just hears mistakes 
them for geese