Late winter snowstorm,
Blanketing yellow metal,
Handlebars,
The wheels–
The wheels aren’t moving.
Aren’t they meant to move?
What else would be their purpose,
Besides to:
Go places,
Adventures, home,
The-bar-down-the-street.
They came here once,
They’re still here,
Outside my window.
The wheels aren’t moving,
They go nowhere–
They can’t–
Without him.
Chained to a rusting sidewalk sign
With such simplicity;
The thought behind it.
But,
I bet it’s hard,
Complicated,
Maybe even frightening
To wait
In anxiety,
Wondering,
“When will he be back again,
To take me places.”
By Inny Taylor
image by Alejandro Corredor
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