You went the first time out of pure luck.
The second time for bragging rights.
To bicycle alongside zebras, giraffe,
and wild boar–What could be better?
The steam. You can hear its whisper
from the gravel road.
Is it the sweat or sun that blinds you
as you take the hill.
The warthog does something just short
of a dash in front of you.
The bike, beaten into submission by
years of repairs, makes it by a hair
Hell is a beautiful place, even in the heat,
the clunky clip of the secondhand bicycle
urging you on in your blindness.