I learned from my dad how to not
Put up with crap from anyone
How to stand up for myself.
To get up and keep going, even after I fell off my bike
And scraped my knee, and vowed to never ride again.

I learned how to make the seat go up and down, or turn around.
To put the baseball card on the spokes so I could hear it flap in the wind
And be the coolest kid in the neighborhood.
I learned how to fix the greased chain after it came off
during a race around the block, in which I usually won, even if it meant
getting my new walmart shirt stained

I learned to not ghost ride my brand new dark green huffy.
To keep it clean and leave the gears in place
Or to at least make sure they were back in place before I locked it up.
I learned even if I thought he didn’t know, he always did.

I learned to think I could do almost anything I wanted to,
As long as I was on my green huffy.

For every trek to White Hen I took,
I always had to get an Icee.
An Icee mixed with cherry and coke, so that when I got to the bottom
I had cold, still carbonated coke with a splash of cherry.
To steal a water balloon, just one.
Even a candy bar if I felt like it.
And to check the payphones for change.