The ancient antique stands,

scared to move,

as it hasn’t for decades.

Handlebars as hunched as a rusty rainbow shattering,

as the sun goes down.

Spokes,

as long as spaghetti,

crunchy,

in a pasta dinner.

Cogs, slowly cackle like a grandfather clock.

The cheerless , crinkled chain.

Pedals dangles,

waiting impatiently.

The saddle rests,

like a settling baby.

The ancient antique stands,

scared to move,

as it hasn’t  for decades.