It was quick and clean
the lock didn’t suffer
neatly decapitated … lying on the ground
the chain dangling
still swirling gently –
the bike gone.
The security man was weary
took no details – only a phone number
promised nothing. He kept his promise.
The policeman was cheerful
took lots of details,
my phone number
gave me a number – “ for your insurance company.”
What did I think it was worth?
Mountain bikes grow old so quickly
about $250 I guessed
“they probably sold for $100 in a bar ”
$50 thought the policeman – “a tab of meth.”
Most of my life has been spent on the bench, occasionally called into the game by extravagance or attenuation. Waiting has turned a loner into a recorder - nondescript and inconsequential, more not noticed than overlooked - the non-vantage point of children not yet considered old enough to understand.
Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry is a lifetime of picking anecdotes up and not throwing them away. Stories collected like odds and ends placed in a box in the basement, the garage, the garden shed - uncertain as to what their use might be but knowing that one day there might be one.
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