The Sun

A horde of bicyclists moves towards the sun
In yellow vests, helmeted, mostly glasses, fast

And like some salmon spawning, I am out
Running in a different direction

The bicyclists are determined to get to work
Their faces squint, they avoid the direct glare

That is warming my back - I have nowhere to go

Later, when their souls are shielded by tinted glass
And high heels, when they lean forward quietly

That's my time to turn, to stop running
And walk step by step

Directly into the blinding sun.