Ride of Passage

Learning to ride a bike.
A rite of passage.
Ready or not, here I come.
Metal bars between my legs,
The feel of the slick vinyl on the banana seat.
But Jimmy’s bike is different than mine.
Mine is glittering red, two wheels now instead of four.
Tinseled handle bars blowing in the breeze—reflecting nature speeding by and
A delicate, white wicker basket for my flowers.
Jimmy’s bike is bigger.
His has a longer, straight bar
Made of steel,
Thick, treaded wheels,
Deep blue paint.
Because he’s stronger and will
Grow up more than me.
Because I am a girl.
That’s why mine sparkles in the sun and I have a basket for my flowers.
He will ride fast, and I will try to keep up.
We both learn to ride bikes.
But mine is different because I am a girl and
Jimmy is a boy.