my street was on fire and my dog died

you are an old man on your old bike. your face has seen so many years, with its creases and excess skin, its yellowed teeth ever-so-slightly emerging from the cave of your mouth, which one day i noticed had a crumble of food lodged in its deep, dimpled crevice a long forgotten remnant of your morning biscotti. you can eat this biscotti now with your egg and pancetta because she is not there to tell you about your heart. now, you are in the business of telling people about your heart. you tell the polyestered men escaping their endlessly aging wives at the italian-american club, where you sit for two hours every afternoon, idly passing the day, idly passing through conversations, drifting in and out of words, memories, and lives.

you do this before you get on your bike. you tell pete and silvio about your heart before you ease one leg over its low, curved seat and hoist yourself onto the pedals. you tell them what the doctor said before you put out your cigarette, don your cap and cardigan and deliberately force your legs to move one before the other, slowly, but with ease and assurance on the pedals of your rusty old bicycle.

now you tell me about your heart. you tell me how it hurts that she is gone and how her love was what kept you going all of these years. now, it is that oxidized chain that moves you through life. the doctor asked your sophie what kept you going on your steady diet of cholesterol and cigarettes. and she said, 'love.' but now that she is gone, what will it be when you can't get on this bike anymore? when one day they call your son, nick, and he has to come pick you up off the floor of your car-less garage where you have fallen, trying to get back on your bike just one more time?

you tell me all of these things with your eyes when i see you coast past the sunnyside print and wallpaper company underneath the train tracks. and for that minute, it does not seem to matter that there was an explosion today on thirty seventh street, or in baghdad, or that there is no money in my bank account and i have no way of finding my way. because as you drift past the chipping paint with that biscotti on your lip, your eyes meet mine, and they tell me that your heart will be ok, because we are pedaling through this life on love.