out your anger on my legs.
It's funny, or not if you're me, but for something
so nice, you sure are mean.
Sometimes we work well together and I think that
maybe you are starting to like me.
Then you cut my leg with your slippery pedal and
I know that in an hour I will bruise.
I would cry if I thought you'd care, but you don'tand never will because your heart is metal.
I'd say go to hell, but can bikes die? The
existential doesn't work on you.
I'd plead with you to let me go one week without
your abuse. I can feel your disdain.
I think you're jealous. I'm soft. You are not.
I sleep inside with A/C and you have to stay
chained to the bike rack downstairs. (haha)
Now that I think about it, it almost seems right
that my toll for using you is pain.
Just warn me next time you decide to kiss my legs
with your sharp contours.
That way I won't cuss at you in front of the random
pedestrians we're passing at light speed.
I can take the pain, but it's best if there's at least
one person left on campus who thinks I'm sane.
Yeeears ago, when I was a student, my bike was my primary means of transportation. This was in England, and, by my observation, getting around anywhere by bike is a whole lot easier in England than here. Anyway, that bike was purchased for a pittance and lovingly restored to working health by a couple of good friends. But I knew little to nothing about caring for it. It held together and did its job, but all it got from me was to be chained up outside and ridden all over creation. No oiling, no waxing and washing. I fixed punctures, but I didn't ever show my gratitude for all the time it carried my weight through rush hour traffic. I'm sure when I sold it before moving to the States, it breathed a sigh of relief.
ReplyDeleteI enjoyed your tale of vehicular vengeance. :)
Thank you, Colin! I love that you leave such wonderfully winding comments! You give me mini-stories, and I like it. :)
ReplyDelete