the speedometer clicks to the frenetic rhythm
of pumping thighs. Like clockwork
she mounts the same time each day,
hits the road, up down and up,
a parody of love not made this week
or last. astride, she burns off
last night's martini and glass of wine,
all motion, pedaling away from unbidden hints
on where her husband really is. In illusory
dynamic she clicks over hills of thought
and the articulate static of radio talk shows.
In place, fanciest house on the street
she flies mile after mile, measures
the fractions she's come, never what's left to go.
The weird metal horse is set to stride inclines,
covered ground enough this week alone
to reach New York, had she wanted to go.
Her heart's rate leaps at the same time
daily, size fourteen to twelve and back.
Still she races the road that takes
her back to this same room