she cannot hope for anything better
than what she was on our red rust –
wagon’s wheels grinding as dad pulled us.

no wonder it’s called a flyer, but
then again she flew faster on a trek
and she fell faster too because

i stole your training wheels and
dad pushes not pulls.
now you push on new pedals

in roofed red metal with adjusting seats
where signs say forty-five but I say,
sixty – eighty – let’s go faster

our van is no match for a radio flyer but
i want us to speed so can you break at least this rule.
maybe careening can we again feel

cracked sidewalks and I think for the rush
you spin your wheels faster still
and faster and “faster!”

so much so that she screams it too –
(and sister,
im not even pushing anymore)

on this road we cannot help
but hope to hear cracked sidewalks
and rusted glee

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