Two thin plastic bags groan, swinging
detergent and chocolate, orange juice and Camels
off two short metal sticks.
The seat grates, grates, grates as hips rotate
and the gears grind, grind, grind:
proof that forty bucks buys a bike, but barely.
A tree stump beckons. The rider sits, and thinks,
"Metal and bone aren't destined to be together,"
but the stump. smooth, cooled by winter air, is another story.
Silhouetted, the plastics droop lower still -
damned gravity!! - as the rider stubs out a smoke,
and bicycles under a moonless sky.
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