Listen to Alan Michael Parker reading this poem On my side I am a bicycle propped in bed,
gangly in the morning.
Down the hall, a neighbor’s door whines and slams—
in the air clapped, a siren churns,
troubles the December gloom.
The souls of things
winter in little rooms:
inside the spoon, a flute’s undone;
inside the lamp, the filament
waits to flower, sing.
A bee dozes in the current,
an idea in a piece of string—
all thing, I lean away
from the hour, back to where I’ve been,
one wheel spun.
