The Levels Drop

The cars snap at my back wheel, buzz my heels:
my muscles, hard though they have grown, no shield.

The cars snap. Trapdoor spiders, they lunge in,
then freeze - remorse? - and set to how-howling.

At my back wheel, I wonder if they're jonesing,
two days after pancakes, for whatever missing

buzz. My heels! Don't take your Lent out on me!
As headaches creep up, levels red to empty,

My! Muscles hard from gas then brake, honking
replacing coffee, dairy, over-wanking,

though they have grown stress-tight, still give
at the new needling cyclist, his juggled olives

no shield. From the stop light, I perch, witness
him rammed, fallen, shattered by the caffeineless.