Tiny Bike Handlebars

The dashboard clock says Sunday, five fifteen.
I parked two houses down behind an oak.
I took the wrench out of the glove compartment.
I loosened both your training wheels right there.

They went into the pockets of my coat.
The heavy nuts were greasy in my hand.
You put your sneakers on the pedal grips.
You told me not to let the frame fall down.

Holding your tiny bike handlebars,
running beside you on the street,
I keep the front wheel pointed straight,
matching the rhythm of your feet,
holding your tiny bike handlebars.

The streetlights hum and flicker into yellow.
Your blue windbreaker fills up with the wind.
You do not turn your head to check on me.
You watch the yellow line along the curb.

You wobble once beside the storm drain grate.
I steady you against my hip and push.
Your chain is humming on the rusty sprocket.
Your shadow stretches thirty feet ahead.

Holding your tiny bike handlebars,
running beside you on the street,
I keep the front wheel pointed straight,
matching the rhythm of your feet,
holding your tiny bike handlebars.

At number forty-two the porch light hits.
A station wagon idles in the drive.
The front screen door is pushed open from inside.
A pair of work boots steps onto the lawn.

Holding your tiny bike handlebars,
running beside you on the street,
I keep the front wheel pointed straight,
matching the rhythm of your feet ,
holding your tiny bike handlebars .

I pull my fingers back and let you roll.
You hit the driveway concrete without braking.
I turn my collar up against the cold.
The two small plastic wheels click in my coat.