CLEARING OUT OLD BIKES

He knew no one would use the bikes again.

But the Rudge three speed, with Sturmey-Archer

gears, was still a good bike, the one his parents

had bought him when he was fifteen. Nobody,

bike stores, thrift stores, wanted them. They

didn’t want the baby furniture either, the cherry

crib his sons had all slept in, or the sturdy high chair.

It was good that he could sneak over to the

clothing-only drop box, with the baby furniture,

and see that it was taken within hours. Someone

would use it, his sons’ furniture.

But the bikes, his English racer, a smaller racer

his three boys had ridden, and their little tricycles.

Those he had to put at the curb, by his mailbox.

He was told, put them out the night before,

people come sometimes, and take them for their

own kids. You say they are not broken? No.

It had snowed overnight, and in the morning,

they stood together, untouched, and

when the big-mouth trash truck came, he was

out there, and nodded yes, as they grabbed each

bike, and threw them, one by one into the back,

where the machine would turn and grind them up.

He nodded thanks, managed a smile,

and watched the truck go down the street.

One handlebar stuck out, like an arm reaching

out of a grave. He went back to his work, clearing

the driveway of the predicted snow.

© 2005 martingreene

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I guess I posted this here four years ago.