With all due apologies to the estate of Robert Frost

Whose city's this I think I know
He moved to the suburbs long ago;
He will not see me biking here
Through infrastructure full of snow.

The passing drivers think it queer
They give a honk and pull too near
Riding in the center lane
Not the bike lane, far from clear.

A wobble, skid and then a fall
"Eff this, man, eff it all"
Colliding with the muddy thud
Upside-down, in winter's thrall

Complete streets are what we seek
The hurdles, though, they seem so steep
Promises they have to keep
We have miles to go before we sleep.