A lumpy woman on a bike
Slows and loses balance on a sharp turn
On the sidewalk

The saddle catches her fanny pack
The pedal, her sneaker lace
Her helmet mushes her hair into a gray fallen soufflé

And now she’s late for office hours
To sit at a desk and hold your hand
And forgive you for failing to become a fraction as notably forgotten as Françoise Dorléac

But she perseveres!
The crossbar crushes into her crotch
She levers her leg down and the bike creaks forward a baby step
Hovering on training wheels of hope and habit

(Françoise‘s ghost laughs, and flings her cognac hair)

She whispers in her own ear:
Pedal!! Pedal, you fuck…