Suburban Solitude--Ron Mouadeb

I felt the gravel crunch beneath the worn-out tires of my bike.
There I was, gliding across the blacktop of my made-up suburbia.

There was the cul-de-sac where I would have played hockey.
And there was the old maple tree where my bus stop would have been.

I pedaled across the railroad tracks to the silent streets where I would have bought cotton candy and baseball cards.
Where I would have wasted lazy summer afternoons, drinking pop and chasing down fly balls.
Where I would have scraped my knees and chipped a tooth.
Where I would have started fire from a magnifying glass.
Where I would have fallen in love with an older girl.

I pedaled further to the field where I would have had my first kiss,
and stopped by the dark blue bleachers where I would have had my first broken nose,
my first warm beer and my first vomit-inducing cigarette.

I flew past stop signs and red lights. I was an outlaw on these streets.
Down the hill where my high school would have been, on the steps where I would have sat, I stopped to look around.
And above, where stars would have shone, I saw deep into the night.
I spat at the would-be sparkling night sky.

I pedaled furiously up the hill, my legs burning as I pumped over the crest and back into a free fall where an October night’s light wind would have given me the feeling that, momentarily,
I was gliding over the blacktop of my made-up suburbia.

I closed my eyes and let go of the handlebars.
And with my arms spread out, the smell of fresh grass tickling my mind, and miles of blacktop for me to discover, I would have believed it too.