Resplendent in their bright bicycle uniforms,
they had come from another town,
and looked none the worse for it.
They stopped for lunch, and met a fellow traveler.
Father, mother and grown son glowed,
while explaining they would explore a new area,
new shops, new people, almost every week.
“The family that cycles together, stays together,”
they said, practically in unison, which
made the fellow traveler painfully recall
that his own family now cycles down different paths.
Though nominally still a unit,
they had long since abandoned
any pretense of togetherness,
save for specialized formal occasions,
celebrations with imaginary bikes parked
for the moment, for some birthday, for example.
Historically, he wished he had done a better job
of planning family road trips, of doing more
things together before everyone dispersed,
riding off into the distance of different dreams.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME