R : The bike

I am a bike on the floor;
that's all I am. Injured,
dazed and convinced my
chain - indeed nothing -
will ever be the same.

This is not a metaphor.
I am a bike, that's all;
That's why I can't call
for help. I can still see
him getting small - and

her, my owner, reeling,
an eel in his arms. She
is nine. It's Boxing day.
Yesterday, she was made
up by me, and make-up.

Yes, I can see, and feel,
but not talk. Ring a bell?
Ding ding. I am a bike.
Useless at such a time:
A good sad photo. Fine.

One day out of wrapping,
Here we go again: Now
it's transparent, plastic
as the boy in blue-mood
(young, clocking overtime).

I don't think anything will
ever be the same. Blame
not me, the smallest Raleigh
around, the low turn-out -
it's a drizzly day. Hear it

on the street, in the pub,
read it in the paper or
see on TV how - I am
a bike, and even I know -
things'll never be the same.