One more
thing you took when you left:
Simple
pleasure of turning the cranks.
The shop
smells of rubber
sweat,
molten metal, grease
crowded with
every kind of
bicycle
possible
standing in
racks on the floor
suspended
from the ceiling
leaning
against each other
in a
beautiful disarray
of type,
size, color, purpose.
Jersies, vests,
shorts, bibs
socks,
gloves, shoes, clips
water
bottles, bottle cages
tubes,
tires, pumps, wheels
tools,
levers, lights
baskets,
panniers, racks.
Helmets.
So much joy
in this little shop
Another
home, back then
in the
beginning
in the
middle.
Now?
In the
aftermath of the end?
When lava tears
fall
melting
choking
obliterating
friend and
enemy alike?
Alienation.
Anomie.
Upheaval.
I leave,
without buying anything
without
saying a word.
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