Thank you, bike.

It's opening night. I'm about to head out to do things like pick up extra ipods, tie little strings around scrolls, and hide everything everywhere. But I wanted to leave you with this sestina.

It's not the best poem ever, and it's not really related to the show; it's actually about my bike.

But my bike's in the show too, you know, and sometimes my bike and I don't really understand one another, sometimes my bike drives me nuts in fact, like right now the fender's bent funny for no reason and it makes this awful squawking sound -- but it's my bike, and when I forget where I parked it, or someone tries to hit it, or I leave it in the basement all winter, I kind of lose my shit.

So I just wanted to say, thank you, bike.

And while I'm at it, thanks to everyone that appears in this show: characters, co-creators, small children battling in the parking lot across the street who pause to watch me kind of lose my shit once a night.

sestina for my bicycle

Tonight I arrived

in a rush

much too slow, much delayed

to see the glint of your crooked tire

half a block away, the sweet solemnity of the post,

around which, your inevitable twist.

Do I myself twist

that way? Well, could I arrive

any other way?  Without abandoning my post,

could you rush

into my vision, my tired

spinning?  What was it that was delayed?

If I delay

the answer, the question seems to twist

around a great turning wheel, an abandoned tire.

As soon as I arrive

at the top, I rush

back to the bottom, hesitant to post

A reply, hesitant to post

another question even, afraid that, in the delay,

the gap or synapse, you will rush,

your grip will twist,

making impossible, without departure, an arrival.

I shuffle my feet, made slow next to your reeling tires.

I walk faster; I grow tired.

I leave you locked to the post,

find that I arrive

anyway, was only delayed,

not made impossible, requiring only a twist

in the schedule, is it so hard to rush?

Is all you make capable, even, rushing?

With each turn of your tires,

am I not twisting

my own?  At your post,

alone, do you not serve a purpose?  Serve to delay,

or perhaps allay my fear of returning home alone, a singular arrival?

Half a block away from the post, I stand as your tires

grin lopsided.  I delay my smile, my face a twist.

How is it I rush, yet you arrive?

So Cruel: a sibling serenade

will premiere as part of the SoLow Festival

June 20-30, 2013
To reserve tickets, email socruelphilly@gmail.com