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.
