Wildly It Turns

I sit straight up on the old leather seat.
Breathing green, drugged in chloroform beauty.
Tree branches bend forward, 
dry as undertakers hands. 
They steal rain in exchange for desiccant comfort.

My mind spins with the tires, 
tracking rubber on steamy pavement. 
Rusty spokes turn like crazy.
Wheels turn attention and grind it to a skidded halt.
The dirty old bike rides straight back to virginity,
embraced by arms no longer hidden 
by spidery veins and sagging skin.
My mouth opens to taste the wet air,
spilling out quicksilver and humid laughter.

The chain prattles on ceaselessly about lipstick 
and sneaking cigarettes, knocking against three on a match.
We smile knowingly, you and I, 
watching the cups of our little brassieres 
wave at us from the prickly bushes.
It is our declaration of independence to small breasts 
jutting out from the confines of clinging white tee-shirts.
Only the damp, thin cotton shields us
from ladies strolling about - grinding their sharp and anxious heels 
into grey cement with each knowing, seductive step.

Riding through this ancient park,
Rain, insidious and sleek as black velvet
dresses my bare feet as they strive for conclusion.
Reaching to the peddles below,
I shovel madly at age like a grave digger
trying to cover the fragility of innocence with mud.
Cemeteries of separation might swim
between our deteriorating headstones,
serving as markers of the only time in our lives 
when we loved each other 
as true friends do.

Syyd Raven's Questions:

Does the reader understand the action taking place, that is described through the use of metaphor?

Is the idea of moving back to youth accurately described, with a sense of dreaminess, instead of syrupy sentimentality?

I tried to seperate budding womanhood from overt feminine sensuality.  Have I succeeded?