Walt and the leaves of grass

why not?  the bike ride was about to begin.
Mr. Pump House went straight for the port-a-potty
and, once inside, peed on his feet.
like a rain forest the interior was hot and dark,
overly damp,
and smelled of cheap perfume.
but he shook his feet individually, impatiently, and left,
leaving the toilet's black plastic lid erect and untouched.
he was briefly curious of the Grateful Dead poster
he glimpsed hanging on the urinal wall.
he went to a companion on the outside and complained
about the foul air inside.
the companion was a Grateful Dead fan, but didn't hear
of the poster so entered an adjacent port-a-potty.
this adjacent port-a-potty had no posters.
it had no paper, either, and the work sheet indicated
it wasn't due for a cleaning for 5 more days.
the group ride was scheduled to begin soon and Mr. Pump House
was determined to be among the first to leave the staging
area, with or without the company of his companion.
but just then,
Walt Whitman rode past the start line on his new Trek,
not having to pee or anything else.
Walt thus became the first person to randomly begin the
Preservation Trust 51 miler, as the official team sponsor
was having their promotional picture taken by a paid photographer
and other riders simply deferred to this group being the
opening act.
in fact, a sizable queue had formed, waiting for some official signal to begin.
so Pump House was thinking the ride hadn't started, either.
and good Walt never stopped, floating over the cow patties
and past the hanging wash, taking quick corners on
the inside with a significant lean, all the while imagining himself an insightful poet.
unfortunately, no one was nearby to see him ride 

over the famous leaves of grass

scattered wildly on the open road.

he dreamed of individual freedoms while
speeding on his Trek which had the new electronic shifter system
and he didn't really need to know much to make it work,

so he pedaled furiously with his Oakley sunglasses catching the buzzing bugs.
when the ride officially began, next to the big green John Deere
tractor and the circus tent, it was like a gold-rush
and a folk-rock festival rolled into one and it smoked.
but no one could catch Walt, who was writing a novel in his head
as he rode while screaming at the top of his lungs.

he was making up songs,
and no one seemed to notice he wasn't wearing a helmet.

his beard was bigger than an Amish buggy.