You are the black beauty of the bicycle world,
Painted crimson; I decorated you with hearts and stars
And replaced your wheel…
How many legs have turned your wheels?
How many hands have clutched your handle bars?
How old are you?
The lady asked for a fiver, I refused. ‘Ten pounds’, I said. That’s fair…
She was in a hurry, flinching at long shadows on graffiti-covered walls.
‘My landlord needs his rent!’
I did her a favour…
Six weeks later, you are gone,
Someone else can enjoy you now.