Sunday Afternoon With Nick
Nick wants me to write a poem and maybe I can do that for him. After all, isn’t it Nick who drove his car around the corner today just when I was feeling too weary to ride my bicycle up the long hill ahead?
Didn’t he appear out of nowhere like a knight – yes, I mean this – like a knight on a horse rounding bend just as my legs almost gave out under me?
Okay, it was only Sunday afternoon in Imus Cavite, and I would have made it up the hill anyway, but didn’t Nick make it easier?
Didn’t he roll the car to a stop, toss me the key, throw one leg over the saddle and take off toward home with his heart pumping, lungs expanding, hips hard at work so I could take the easy way, the high road, the path needed at exactly that moment?
For all the times he’s done that for me, in dozen years we’ve loved each other, surely I can do this much for him. Surely I can do one thing I know I do well: I can write it down.
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