Moped Rides Rider Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

He rides his moped
like a horse,
reining it in, as it

screeches and jerks
with the voice
of a snorting
and whinnying beast

slowing down
to a staggered canter
and a trot
through potholes,

slithering round
deepening ditches,
as they yawn
out mud and sludge.

And sneeze out
splashes of water,
into smaller pools

swelling with
frothy, foamy water
spat by other swamps

rising in umber
and bronze sprinkles
to fall back
to swamp in strings

on earth's stretchy
carpet in ropes
and shredded
sun-gleamed rags
of water flung

to linger behind
him and melt
into larger and larger
tawny and brunette
pools of drifting
rainstorm floods.

Flowing and floating
along
sighing, singing
and rattling

eroded canals
and standing
rippled ditches
sinking
into themselves.

(ii)

After zigzagging
on the moped
through shallow
shivering swamps

and interwoven
marshes fed fat
by further broken
and continuous

drizzles and swift
washing downpours
whirring
and babbling along
shallow streams,

he runs into
a full swollen river
expanding into
a narrow lake
from bank to bank.

(iii)

Under lace sparks
and pearl specks
and ivory sailing
stars
of flying

winged splashes
left by heavier
waddling vehicles,

every walking
and bicycling
and light biking

traveler
must lift up
their mud-filled
carob wheels
to cross

the expanded
deepened river.

(iv)

O river, swell your
belly into cushioning
stroking water
to lift everybody,

every machine
to waddle and tramp

through
your massive body
of slowly
drifting
half-mile stretched

emerald,
taupe
and beige waters.

O solitary rider
amid dozens,
each on a broken moped,
let your machine
ride you through,

mutters a breeze,
as a young man
jerks up his moped

to let it sit
plumped down
into his head,

as the quiet machine
rides the rider
through
the widened river.