Tokyo

by The Books

The Duchess of Alba

The cold rain hits my face like an insult,
the chain grinds on the gears as I climb
up the hill pumping against indifferent pedals
like my heart valves
push and pull, push and pull.

The heat comes when I sit down
so I pull off a layer of clothes.
The wind plays with the trees outside
as if they were toys
push and pull, push and pull.

I find minutes to indulge briefly
my thirst and tendency to write
in between sips of watered drink
I drag the pen in time with what I think
push and pull, push and pull.

She is the wind and I the tree
my emotions are subject to her
and in turn she is touching me.
We interact in tactful drama
push and pull, push and pull.