I don’t envy you your mortal enemies –
coaches, scoutmasters, priests, uncles,
arrogant enough to tell you how you must live –
who want you to believe the only regimen
to go from boy to man takes huffing, puffing,
gritting of teeth, spasms in calves and thighs,
a catch in your ribcage –– pain
Shouts and hoots from passing cars confirm
the tyranny of what you’ve been taught to believe:
“candy ass,” for one thing; “sissy,” for another,
that you need to “earn those abs”
What I do envy is that you just don’t seem
to give a shit:
the flaps of your helmet swing freely under your chin,
no tears I can see, a steady march uphill,
teeth riveted in steely and unforgiving sass
I like your private smile at the pinnacle,
how you snap your helmet tight,
casually mount the bike,
arch up the front wheel into the wind,
pedal furiously downhill
Fly now, iconoclast, fly