The bike dwarfs you
and its shadow encompasses you
like architecture
in the hallway.
You are careful as you address it,
but not careful enough
because the next thing you know,
you are crashed within it
and the next thing you know,
you have the scar on your head,
which you only faintly see
when you baldify
twenty-odd years later.

These are memories of a three-year-old,
but they are memories
that have been shared with you
so often
you do not know
if they are yours,
or painted for you
to believe as your own.

You suspect the latter.
You know the latter.

You were not really there
for that first formative bike crash.

You will have many others
that will make up for it later.