The Ghost On the Bicycle

His name was legend, written in lore, Riding his bike like no human should. He’d vault and swerve, plunge and dance, Leap frogging my entire childhood. He could sprint from a stop, faster than fast, Past everyone else on the road. Till he came to the top of the sharpest ridged gully, That’s where he eventually slowed. He slowed not to be careful, or safe or guarded, Or because of the exhausting conquest. But rather so he could balance on one spindly wheel, All along the sharpest edged crest. He’d be there for hours, any type of day, Be it hot or cold, rain, ice, or smog. Until, almost crippled, his bike and him one, He rode his way home again, alone in the fog. This night he came to the dark murky road, just out from home, He peered left but didn’t look right. Now he’s the ghost on a bike, wistfully riding the streets of this town, Riding silently every night.