THE FRIENDLIEST BOY IN THE CITY

Like early Billy Joel, 
I was an angry young man, 

yelling at drivers to make room, 
stop cutting me off, use a blinker, … 
raising my voice, occasionally a finger. 

Oh, I rode with a chip on my shoulder, 
sense of moral righteousness, 
disciplined enough to do my part 
to save the planet from smog and noise, 
to shun the lemming drive through McDonald’s, 
bicycle my soapbox from which to rail 
against obesity, autobesity. 

Yes, I was crushing it, 
local legend on Strava segments, 
until I was crushed one sunny afternoon 
by a minivan making an illegal turn, 

trauma that could have driven me 
even deeper into the dark side. 
Instead, after my recovery, 
I became the friendliest boy in the city. 

Now I’m the one, 
lit up like a (re)birthday cake, 
waving a long neon yellow-clad arm 
excitedly at each intersection 
like some long-lost friend. 

I’m the one 
holding eye contact with you 
for an inordinate length of time, 
gazing intently like a smitten lover, 
yielding to your desires, 
anticipating your every move, 
hyperaware of every whim. 

I’m the one, heart on his sleeve, desperate 
to make you love this fragile life 
like I do. 

Boyd Bauman grew up on a small ranch south of Bern, Kansas, his dad the storyteller and mom the family scribe. His books of poetry are Cleave and Scheherazade Plays the Chestnut Tree Café, and his children’s book is The Heights of Love. After stints in New York, Colorado, Alaska, Japan, and Vietnam, Boyd now is a librarian and writer in Kansas City. Visit at boydbauman.weebly.com.