Day 685 May 18, 2022

Ode to Forgotten Bicycles

Parked behind the building before a heavy rain, 

and then it is as if it never existed, 

or as if it vanished from mind, 

from existence, 

the carefully picked out bell 

with a purple flower, 

the nifty little under seat bag. 

I worry about what befell it’s owner. 

Did she never return? 

Was she a casualty of final exams, 

a drunken night, 

a car accident? 

The bicycle has weathered a winter,

the chain taking on the patina 

of old farm equipment. 

All across campus 

there are similar carcasses 

in various states of disassembly 

and disintegration, 

each carefully and dutifully locked in place, 

frozen for all time, 

the steeds of the disappeared, 

the forgotten, 

the forgetful. 

Perhaps every semester 

there are lost souls 

forever searching 

for where they parked their bike. 

Like the woman lost 

in the mall parking garage, 

they wander the tucked away nooks, 

the sheltered alcoves, 

the undulating steel combs. 

How long does one look before calling it 

lost, 

stollen, 

disappeared? 

I imagine sneaking onto campus 

in the dead of night 

with a hacksaw 

and setting them all free, 

a chance to run away 

and live again.