Ghost Bike at Ravenswood

Ghost Bike at Ravenswood

My mother always saw them
on the side of the road:
makeshift memorials at train tracks,
flowers left at light poles,
ghost bikes chained at intersections.
"Some poor kid, Jack," and I'd envy
my sister out on errands with dad.

Summer evenings she'd summon
me to the TV to see some local son's
body being recovered from a pool.
"Tell him about your friend from college,"
she'd push my dad. "The one who drowned."
"Drinking and high dives don't mix," he'd say
before diving back into his drink.

I imagine the friends spray painting it white.
Finding an extra ulock and losing the key.
Some mother making her son notice.
My phone vibrates in the cup holder.
What's up? her text lingers, dissolves.
The cars are honking at me.
The light's turned green.