Why does it matter

That the woman

Calls me “Sir”?

That I can’t park

My bike in front

Of the dentist’s office.

“Sir, bikes, out back,” she says.

I am taken aback,


By assumptions

And rules

That don’t make


That drive me to

Paint pink flowers

On my blue helmet.

The pink glasses

Aren’t enough

To conform to

What’s assumed

Without knowing.

To intercept the mental shortcuts

Linked to tall

And bikes.

So I fall prey to

Trying to signal what I am

Without becoming

What society says

I should be.

An older woman

Who drives a car.


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