Riding a bike in summer.

I know a girl named Lonnie
that rides a green bike with a basket.
The sidewalks she rides down
are covered in crushed acorn caps,
and flattened yellow cups from a church picnic.
Her tires buckle under cracks and when
Lonnie goes down the big hill, her denim
skirt hikes up to mid-thigh.

At the bottom of Dannon Street, she
sees Dennis beat a stick against the side
of a fire hydrant. His polo shirt is unbuttoned
and he’s angry about his haircut. The small
penguin on the chest pocket shuffles his
feet through bigger tracks in the snow.

Lonnie’s braids fall against her shoulders
and beat on her back when she comes to a stop.
She explains to neighbors that her hair is auburn,
not red. “I got it from my mom.”
When the street lamps come on, she parks her bike
against the tree Dennis beats. Lonnie picks
at chunks of bark with her finger nails while
flakes of red nail polish fall into her lap.
She thinks about changing out of her skirt
and into a pair of jeans that fit last year.
She’ll let down her braids, grab a stick
bigger than Dennis’, and whack it
until everything but the trunk falls
into the street.