I Call Them the Unicycle Twins—

by Evangeline Sanders

matching men on matching heaps of metal

churning silver pedals 

every morning at 10:00am—

two scrawny bodies, all veins and kneecaps,

soft hair swiped across a balding crown.

Smiles devour their small, round faces 

as they talk. I wonder what retired twins

have left to discuss—that German Shepherd 

on the news, Martha’s failing kidneys, 

those pesky backyard moles 

they want to whack with mallets.

Once, they were curled up 

in their mother’s womb, legs tangled together, 

peddling each other’s bellies

with squishy fetus toes.

They must have hated each other—

hurled a few punches in the schoolyard,

racked up a few ER bills for red-faced parents.

They must have loved each other,

in the scraped shinned, screaming, 

tight-fisted way

that nine-year-old brothers do. 

Gone are the days of snatching ice cubes 

from the sawdust of the milkman wagon,

the mornings of plucking small green apples 

from the neighbor’s farm.

Gone are the breakfasts of kettle-cooked bacon,

the sizzle of morning and watery light 

of sun through hand-stitched curtains. 

Now, there are only the unicycles.

Brothers. Silver pedals, churning.

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