Alan Bruce Thompson
I must try to fly, bike there very fast,
Speed this very second like my last.
A courier like me, with precious mail,
Can’t afford to be slowed down by a snail.
Down the streets the wrong way, jump the light,
I’m careless by day, without light by night.
I race with the tidings of gloom and despair,
To gain speed I shave my legs and my hair.
I try to be there almost before I begin,
I bring warnings of death, of fear, and of sin.
I replaced the stage coach, before me they flee,
Now the electronic courier will overtake me.
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Comments about this poem (Bicycle Courier by Alan Bruce Thompson )
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