This is not Headingley. We’re both on bikes,
The Hudson on our right and skyscrapers on our left,
Aiming for Central Park, no gears, no brakes,
Just fixed wheels turning, bobble hats aloft.
And I am cycling through all my years
Each one as sharp as the March sun for me
But there is no pain and no time for tears,
I’m seventy today, was meant to be
Cycling through Manhattan, a world of song,
Porter, Gershwin, Berlin and Ellington.
I am here, it’s now, and nothing can be wrong
I breathe in and out, it’s my oxygen,
All the songs she sang to me as a boy.
Mine is the respiration of pure joy.