This lust hits me every year about this time,
as the temperature soars toward the century
mark, as kids unwrap from school and take
to their bikes to freewheel their way wherever
they want to go.

Though I don’t recall asking for a pink two-wheeler,
it’s what I tooled around on in my youth. Sissy
pink girlie bike that embarrassed my budding
feminist self. But now, my heart annually yearns
for such a bike, a fat-tired cruiser,

and when I saw one in a store today—
shopping for cat food, not transportation—
I felt the familiar swoon of the unattainable.
Wobbly for years, strongly advised to
avoid wheels and heels, I have walked away
from such temptation again and again.

Today I paused next to a blushing bike,
complete with perky basket and a swooping V
angling up to its cushy wide seat, practically
begging me to swing a leg over and take it
for a spin, zipping through all seven speeds,
and oh, yes, thumbing the lever on that
creamy bell.

And for the rest of the day I am twelve again,
hopping on my pink two-wheeler to catch up
with my best friend and my sister, calling to
each other as we pedal wherever we want to go:

This way! Over here! It’s summer, girls,
and we have the whole day ahead of us.
Let’s go see what we can see.