Bicycle
When we first met in California it was a care free
thrilling exchange of control and collaboration. For your part,
royal blue, crosstown hybrid breezer, everything was
out in the open. You never held back your gyroscopic power,
even with one foot clip dangling and a mere 7 speeds. For me,
aging yet agile, a perfectly balanced straddle. Between us
we kept the whole thing moving forward up and down
Berkeley's hills, bathed in ocean air, you revving up
at exhilarating speeds. I should have left you then
when things were running smoothly. Instead I dragged you
back east, me in pursuit of love, insisted you’d be happy too.
Our first winter you sat shackled in chains and locks,
stripped by weather that stole your shine and wore
your insides down. Springtime found you lying on your side,
a rusty carcass, wheels and seat stolen, brakes and basket
mangled. Now summer, I pass your remains, which look like
just another rusted pile of New York City sidewalk clutter. What,
if anything, should be salvaged between us? Your back rack
and kick stand, and of course your lock, but just let me say,
before we part, sweet precious girl, I’m so very sorry.
When we first met in California it was a care free
thrilling exchange of control and collaboration. For your part,
royal blue, crosstown hybrid breezer, everything was
out in the open. You never held back your gyroscopic power,
even with one foot clip dangling and a mere 7 speeds. For me,
aging yet agile, a perfectly balanced straddle. Between us
we kept the whole thing moving forward up and down
Berkeley's hills, bathed in ocean air, you revving up
at exhilarating speeds. I should have left you then
when things were running smoothly. Instead I dragged you
back east, me in pursuit of love, insisted you’d be happy too.
Our first winter you sat shackled in chains and locks,
stripped by weather that stole your shine and wore
your insides down. Springtime found you lying on your side,
a rusty carcass, wheels and seat stolen, brakes and basket
mangled. Now summer, I pass your remains, which look like
just another rusted pile of New York City sidewalk clutter. What,
if anything, should be salvaged between us? Your back rack
and kick stand, and of course your lock, but just let me say,
before we part, sweet precious girl, I’m so very sorry.