Caki Wilkinson Lady on a Unicycle Every body continues in its state of rest, or of uniform motion in a right line, unless it is compelled to change that state by forces impressed upon it.
—Newton's First Law
So Esse Pearl gets snowed in at the chichi condo
of that married man she sees,
and—you can filter this however you think fit—
she's upstairs, toweling off burst-bubble film, her chest
half-chafed from his monogram,
and he's shut in the parlor, leafing through sheet musicbut just the glockenspiel, he says, to cover up
the woodwinds in his head—
when, glancing towards the French doors to contemplate a scale,
he spies a woman poised, it seems, above the fluff
of shrubs before the sheer
pink streetlights show her high boots turn a single wheel.Now here's the kicker: he goes back to reading, forgets
to even mention it
until they take a holiday months later (months!),
like it was nothing to write home about—and that's
the kind of man he is,
Esse Pearl says, a mess of grandioso themesthat only he can hear; and (bless her heart) wrapped up
in his wife's terry robe,
she never knew what passed: a whistle-trill of spokes
propelled along that salted asphalt, the easy lean
a lady keeps when balanced,
the freedom of a body that's learned to stop itself.