The old senior bike leaning on an Elm tree.

With crusty handle bars like wolverines claws.

The wheels are like the letter O spinning around a writers mind.

Spokes,

as thin as a pencil,

howling across the page.

The senior broken cogs spin around like a wind mill.

The rusty, tatty chain not wanting to be used.

Pedals swing, pedals sway, pedals hang.

Waiting loudly, riding silently, rocking hopefully.

A saddle as worn as a homeless man’s shoe.

The old senior bike, leaning on an Elm tree.