by Jack Hickman

From the windows at the back of the house
I see every now and then
An adolescent girl
Riding her bicycle round and
Round through the early winter dusk
Repeating a narrow circuit behind the cars
In the parking lot
Of the condos next door.

I worry about her all alone
With nothing to do but ride and ride,
Filling the time between homework
And going in for dinner.

I have never met her on the sidewalk,
Never seen her face.
I don’t know who her parents are
Or which unit is her home.
She is just there some evenings
Going round and round,
As if she were a metaphor
And my life a Bergman film.


Jack Hickman was born and raised in Alameda, California.  
He is a graduate of Calvin College in Grand Rapids, Michigan,
and after many years of working in retail, Hickman is now a
teacher with the Oakland Unified School District.  His poetry
has appeared in
Perspectives Journal, Redheaded Stepchild,

Previous page    Apple Valley Review, Fall 2018    Next page
Apple Valley Review:
A Journal of Contemporary

ISSN 1931-3888

Volume 13, Number 2
(Fall 2018)

Copyright © 2018
by Leah Browning, Editor.  

All future rights to material
published in the
Valley Review
are retained
by the individual authors
and artists.