ÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿ7 September 1995 

A Piece of Prose in the Shape of a Poem 

    Many years ago 
    I went for a bicycle ride, 
    expecting a few forgettable hours 
    in pleasant company. 
    The weather was perfect: 
    not hot, not cold 
    not cloudy, not glaring, 
    not raining, not arid. 
    I had been riding long and hard and often 
    and getting plenty of rest. 
    My womb wasn't hogging resources in hope 
    or cramping in disappointment. 
    After a stop for refreshments 
    I had eaten enough, but not too much 
    recently, but not too recently. 
    On a long, flat stretch along the river 
    I fell in with companions 
    who were strong enough to keep up with me 
    and willing to stay behind. 
    I found myself pulling a pace line, 
    plowing the air, casting the wind shadow, 
    unwilling to let another rider pull 
    while I was physically able to continue. 
    How much time passed in the outside world? 
    As much as five minutes?  Maybe ten? 
    Certainly less than half an hour. 
    There are no minutes in the timeless moment 
    when it all came together, 
    when my natural habitat was the head of a pace line. 

    It sometimes happens 
    that a writer will set out to write prose 
    the very best way he can. 
    It sometimes happens that talent and skill, 
    experience and hard work,
    determination and inspiration, 
    snap together.
    It sometimes happens 
    that when the astonished writer goes back to read, 
    he finds a poem in the shape of prose. 

    Poetry is like happiness. 
    You can't have it unless 
    you want something else.