She looked at me imperiously over
Her handlebars, powder blue-and-white
Streamers cascading in the breeze of her
Passage, rumbling like an Electraglide
With the Queen of Spades held captive
By a wooden clothespin on her fork,
Strumming her spokes to the variable
Melody of her speeding, slowing, stop.  

“Come over for a snack,”  

She said, or was it

“License and registration.”  

How could I not agree as she
Led me to her house and kitchen table, her
Mom dispensing cookies and milk
To her and me, her latest
Collar. 

-- Tom Rubenoff