Redemption Poem by Gary Witt

curb lined with concrete cylinders:
two-foot high pedestals, evenly spaced,
that keep the cars off the sidewalk.

from nowhere this bicyclist
rears up on his hind wheel,
propels himself head-long
toward one pedestal, and
plops his front wheel over it,
wedging the concrete pillow
between his tires.

one man laughs;
two women hope he’s not hurt.

he doesn't fall but sticks there, hovering;
then with an awkward dismount,
he pulls the bike from its pedestal wedgie,
and circles around slowly
performing the same move again.

more people are starting to giggle and point.

he sees them, he hears them,
he circles around,
then up on his hind wheel
he seemingly floats,
landing his rear tire
atop the pedestal,
his front tire still in the air;
balanced, stable, proud.

on his rear tire he hops
to the second pedestal
and then to the third,
pausing to savor each landing.

both wheels back on the pavement,
he rides away.

people applaud,
some cheer.
he is down the street now
and does not hear.