I hate the phrase “inner life.” My attic hurts,
and I’d like to quit the committee
for naming tornadoes. Do you remember
how easy and sad it was to be young
and defined by our bicycles? My first
was yellow, and though it was no Black
Phantom or Sting-Ray but merely a Varsity,
I loved the afternoon it was suddenly gone,
chasing its apian flash through the neighborhoods
with my father in vain. …