The Sidecar

The midnight air is humid,

And I am standing at the corner,

Watching the headlights cut through the dark.

I used to think this journey was a gift,

A ride toward a horizon I could name,

With a driver who knew the way.

But I looked at the seat beside me,

And the metal frame had changed.

The ones who should have bought the fuel,

Who should have checked the tires and the chain,

Have climbed into the sidecar instead.

They have sat down

In the rusted chair of the future.

They have folded their arms

And closed their eyes,

Leaving the handlebars to me.

How can I feel the wind on my face?

How can I choose a different turning,

A narrower path, a steeper hill,

When the weight of their survival

Is bolted to my frame?

A tricycle cannot fly;

It is bound to the asphalt.

And I cannot be a wanderer

When I am the only engine left.

My “freedom” is a phantom,

A dream of a road with no passengers,

While I move through the silence,

Carrying the people

Who were supposed

To carry me home.