The Red Light

As I was riding home the other night
something gripped my heel
and I went a-tunneling through asphalt
deeper than pipes and roots,
so black I was blind,
but I could see my bike
lying there in the middle of the empty road.
I spun the back wheel with a defeated memory
and suddenly there was light,
a big red mouth in what was no longer sky
and I was hurtling towards it.
To my left, there was an old man in a white pick-up,
a Jersey tagged double-tap breaker.
He looked over to me just as I could
feel the heat of glowing lips.
"Hop in," he mouthed. He was wearing
sunglasses.
He saw me two lights down
past the molars on Lingua Street
and I told him where to stop. He didn't protest
and neither did the road.
As I clapped the clunky door closed,
I saw my bike cushioned in his flat bed. I hadn't
noticed it before and I didn't ask.
Before I rode off I thanked him, and he raised a hand,
flipped down his sun visor.
I rode on tip toes the rest of the way home.