The bike sits,

a forgotten friend waiting

against the mossy bricks.

Its pedals waiting to be ridden

Sticking out like bull horns

The wheels are round,

like a Ferris wheel,

waiting to be spun again.

They’re pink like a flamingo’s feathers.

The saddle lay

against the stand,

waiting to get the ice-cream stain washed off

like a child’s dirty shirt.