By D. Avery
He was a good bicyclist, skillful and considerate, always riding to the right of the white line. He used lights and always wore reflective clothing, making himself visible to drivers. They say he was a good man, teaching children to ride, fixing their bikes.
His road bike was the green of a sent text message. The truck was black, they think. They found his bike tangled on the yellow line. His white helmet had somehow come off, somehow whole and spinning, spinning, on the silent black tar of the highway. They marked the spot with a white ghost bike.