One Waldenite I Like

Even his untraditional choice
whether subconscious or not
to ride in the shoulder
on the left side of the road
facing the oncoming traffic
is a badge of his rebellious courage
or unfettered ignorance
depending on how one looks at it.
His bicycle's front end is a bit too wobbly
to be wholly trusted; maybe he'd rather
see the truck coming then guess
if and when it's upon him.
There's a pack of Marlboro Reds
or Winstons peering from his chest pocket
making it clear that his ride is not
intended for exercise purposes. This is a man
whose body won't give up on him
even when he tries-- the doughy
alcoholic with an underlying strength
that comes out when called upon
to lift the heavy axle of a friend's project vehicle
or two thirty-packs of a cheap cream ale
when the shade-tree mechanic decides to
call it a day and succumb to what the night
holds in store. He knows that his vice
will only send him further down the spiral--
losing his license for awhile for driving under the influence
is why he's forced to ride a bike around town--
but a forty-something redneck ain't 'bout to change now.
I admire his stubbornness as only a peer can appreciate
and make sure to give him enough room on our
shared roadway by blatantly crossing the double yellow.
Ride on, brother. It's only six months.