Late

Whizzing over bumpy asphalt,

clasping a silky scarlet scarf, which

I stole from my mother's vanity,

from one gear to another I switch.

The stripey fabric that adorns my hair -

with gusts it shifts and slips.

They call my bike a granny bike

that bright red frame underneath my hips.

In front of St. Paul's I skid to a halt

the stoplight turns red. As I watch

and feel my chockfull backpack stick,

a salty trickle becomes a damp patch.

Fiery cheeks from hurried rush, flushed

as the pedestrian crosses when red.