You’re an old racket and I admire your science
Emphatically like a pet or oil
Jumping out of a hot frying pan.
I am also old and low as the place you pray
When grandma used to make the real peach jam
With the jars from the attic
And I am myself more each day
That I know you are still alive.
The only difference between us
And forgotten potted plants
Are the piles of paper full of sea breeze.
Dear old bike, tomorrow I will take you out
For a ride, and even in this weather,
I will wear shorts
And keep free from the chain.
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