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Tricycle Boy Versus The Furnace Monster

Gleaming red with streamered grips
And ball cards in the spokes;
A starter kit for larger dreams
Composed by smaller folks.

My trike, my first, my own, my gosh!
Three wheels so I won’t fall;
Heading out to see the world
Cruising down the hall.

The basement sports a grueling course
For pea-sized Indy champs;
Lost in play I wheel my way
Through tables, chairs, and lamps.

Banking off the sleeping cat,
Powering down the straights,
I swing in through the furnace room
Where every fear awaits.

Dark and cobwebbed, cramped and stale,
I spin in shrieks and skids
The furnace monster breaths out fire
In search of little kids.

The biggest monsters we can face
Are of our own creation
To youthful eyes this monster’s size
Sufficed for motor-vation

I flash across that basement floor
I corner on two wheels
I blow the hinges off the doors
That demon at my heels.

I shoot out where the patio,
Watched over by the sun,
Enjoys the light where no dark fright
Would ever dare to come.

I shut her down beneath the shade
Of a kindly willow tree
Protected by her weeping boughs
From what was after me.

I pant, relieved to be alive
I pause, then with a grin,
I mount back up and spin my wheels
To do it all again!

Picture of Wes Stephenson

Wes Stephenson

Author, motorcyclist, poet, and adventurer. Let's journey together.



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