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He rides a bike. It is yellow. And the sun is yellow. And the grass is green and the house is white and the tulips are red and his face is mindless.
He is taking all things in.
The training wheels tip and gait with him. Like a father running alongside. The father is nowhere.
And his helmet tweaks and shifts. Side to side as he pedals. Left to right and back.
The gravel is loose and so the tire sometimes spins. The tire sometimes spins and he looks back at a valley in the earth. It fills with gutter water that is still running. In the morning there was rain. So the grass looks more green and the house more white and the sun more yellow and the tulips more red.
For this boy it is impossible to fall. He is forever upright. At times he pauses to watch a robin or listen for the engine of impending traffic. But he never falls. The levers catch. And the bike comes to rest. Tilting with the earth. But the boy's face is hollow and spaced.
Falling is justice. Falling is warning. Falling is chipping teeth and scraping skin and learning. Falling is childhood. The imperfection of his bike is fatherless. The unfaltering nature of his bike is like being widowed.
The boy is a hole in the world that everyone is falling into.
Like gravity the boy rides his bike.
The bike is yellow. And the sun is yellow. And the grass is green and the house is white and the tulips are red and his father has foreign birds pecking at his unlooking eyes.
Among other publications, J. A. Tyler has recent work in Lamination Colony, Monkey Bicycle, Thieves Jargon, Underground Voices, and Word Riot. His debut novella is forthcoming from Ghost Road Press in 2009 and his prose poetry chapbook will be available soon from Trainwreck Press. He is also founding editor of the literary review Mud Luscious and a recent addition to the online editorial team at Pindeldyboz. Read more at www.AboutJATyler.com.