Black Beauty

Dear George,

In my Poetry Writing Workshop we were given an assignment to write a love poem about a physical object.  I struggled to find a topic.  I thought about our new Smart TV, my blue tent, my camera, my Fitbit, etc., but none of them evoked a level of emotion called for by the task.  Then I let my mind wander back to childhood, and I started thinking about my and my friends’ bikes when we were growing up in Menominee.  Talk about love for an object.  Here is my story in rhyme.  There’s some occasional poetic license, but, for the most part, it’s a true story.

Love,

Dave

          Black Beauty 

Childhood, overall, is a dreary affair

They make you do stuff you don’t like 

But there also is stuff that is happy

And the best of that stuff is one’s bike

I got my new bike when I turned eleven 

A handsome fantastic black Schwinn

I gave him the name of Black Beauty

The day that we took our first spin

Your life leaps ahead when you get a new bike 

It’s then you become a big kid

You’re free as a lark, can cruise all over town

That’s just what Black Beauty and I did

This bike was jet black with solid white stripes 

Its frame, all-American steel 

Heavy duty tires and strong inner tubes

With its light mounted on the front wheel 

I’d had kiddie bikes for years before this

But Black Beauty was at least twice as fast

This bike was designed to fight Nazis

Or escape from a horrible blast 

We neighborhood kids formed our bicycle gang 

There was Skipper and Sammy and Frank 

We stormed down the street like a posse 

And riled old Murphy, that crank

Skipper was the tallest and strongest

He’d win nearly all of our races

But Black Beauty would often take second

He put the whole group through its paces

A year later we moved to the country

My school was three miles away 

Our rough gravel road, such a challenge

But Beauty was up to the fray 

After school I’d stop by the Dairy

And buy a three-dip chocolate cone

I’d ride no-handsies eating ice cream 

Black Beauty could steer on his own

Sometimes I’d venture to town after dark

The graveyard was off to the right 

I felt my heart pound as I watched for a ghost 

Beauty stepped up the speed of our flight 

Peter J. was my brother Steven’s best friend

His folks had returned from abroad

They’d brought him a new bike from England 

A bike that, to me, seemed most odd

Peter was skinny and his bike was too

It was made of aluminum, not steel

There were three different gears — who’d heard of that? 

And a flimsy thin tire on each wheel  

“You’ll never beat Nazis with that bike,” I said 

Peter smiled, then suggested we race 

Four years younger, a pint-sized kid  

Black Beauty would put him in his place

I proposed that we race for fifteen cents 

But Peter came up with one dime

“A dime it is,” I said with a wink 

A ridiculous bet, such a crime

We staked out a course on north State Street

Three blocks to the corner of Kirby

My brother called the start, “One-Two-Three — GO!!!”

We were off, like the Peshtigo Derby 

Much to my shock, Peter pulled out in front

That English bike, quicker than quick 

I pedaled Black Beauty as hard as I could

But we still couldn’t pull off the trick  

Peter won that race by a good forty yards

The boys laughed, they thought it so funny 

Deep in my heart Black Beauty was best

But, morosely, I gave him my money

In less than a year all the new bikes in town

Were English bikes made for top speed 

Black Beauty, to my friends, was a relic 

An ancient though venerable steed 

The years have passed since my last ride home 

Black Beauty now lives in bike heaven

But all those adventures stay fresh in my mind

It’s a special time, turning eleven