A rusty bell’s sound
Wound down to a rasp.
Sliding grips and horns
Slip from a grasp
And chains
Whose revolutions are near
Done.
The cables need more grease.
There falls another piece.
Today I’ll need a fleece.
A pannier full with tools
I no longer know how to use.
Pay someone to take good care,
Shame of going there, there. There.
Light gears and brake more fear.
It’s all down hill from here.
I’ve charged the batteries dear.
Enjoy those larger curves
Rocks I’ve learned to swerve.
A rusty bell
Whose sound’s a rasp.
Tom Shearman | Writer 