I could say she had me with the purple bike. But I’d be popping a wheelie. Actually, it started slow for me. But with “On my one speed, life is plain,” I started to get it into gear. The weary mundane tenor of her spokes, umm, speech, begins to climb my original hill of least resistance. It’s a middle-aged poem and not a bad one. Clever is as witty does. Throw in a little Goya for flavor. Hey, this ain’t a kid’s bike you know, high handlebars, banana seats. It’s got some culture. Streamers. And it glides into a nicely resigned ending, then leaves the whole thing on its kickstand.
How It Came to Be Connecticut by James Haug
Being from Massachusetts, I tend to avoid anything Connecticut, but this poem invaded New York, so I took the chance to like it. Some of the mechanics warned me though. Enjambments near the middle of the motor misfire badly. Non sequiturs keep veering left. But the Frost in the penultimate line tickled me fire engine red. So I bought it.
Dear Jim by Matthew Langley
No, you eat a potato. I’d like to bite my teeth into a nice white juicy onion. Have some tears of rage choke me good. But this is just a crocodile without the teeth. Even the rather wild proverbial ending seems a little tame in the light of silence.
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