Posted in Passages

Recycled

I never knew his name
Sam’s cycles said the shopfront sign
“no mate, Sam was the one before, the one before me.”
Two ago – got that,
but didn’t add anything more.
The premises were minute,
tiny, even by tiny house standards
the bike had to be wheeled carefully –
tiptoeing around other bikes and accessories.

Succinct, owner and premises
and accurate
– “ about 20 bucks mate ”
$18.50 on collection.
And just the right quality and quantity of humour :
“ no colour doesn’t matter whatever comes ” –
a bright pink one
aahhh
so colour does matter , then a laugh, and
card shark switch to black.

The business grew to new premises
more accessories and bikes
and a pretty woman on the counter,
but from the workshop he always gave a nod
a nod that said  I recognise you … and thanks for coming back,
and I hope you will again.
I did
for more than 10 years
except the last time.
He wasn’t there
nothing, nothing at all.
The café owner next door was putting out rubbish
“gone,” he said, “ closed, finished,
the big places have killed another business
no room for the little man now.”

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Author:

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.