by Susan Glass

A two speed Schwinn, its thirty pound frame dependable, grounded,
that you bought so I might continue my sightless escapades,with no more plowing headlong into parked cars; blindness does that to you.
What was it like to be the mother who allowed that to happen?
Mama, you knew I could not be penned in, windowed in,
walled inside the kind of sound proof, smell proof,
houses they built in the Midwest to keep out the cold.