Gresham

There were months
That felt like years
That were only days
Of drizzle and gray

My bedroom window
Dingy on both sides
A fist under my chin
Pane beset with a din

Of wind and rain
Of Easterly gusts
Off the surface of the river
Chin on my fist quivers

Pine trees leave gray shadows
Where the rain has not hit
The sidewalk covered in chalk
Where my bike flys like a hawk

But I am behind the glass
I lay on my chest
Tomato soup in the kitchen
Tomorrow I race or wait again