The story of my first bike.
|I am the love in a devoted dad’s heart
as he firmly reclaims my rusty frame
from a pile of abandoned junk and starts
to remove all the grime and greasy gunk
before earnestly refurbishing by hand.
Amidst the vapors of turpentine and oil,
he toils with paint scraper and sandpaper.
He’s softly humming a hymn as he straightens
my bent fender and tightens loose spokes with his wrench.
Then a coat of powder blue paint with black trim,
chrome handlebars, a well-oiled chain, and pristine tires
render my splendor as good as new.
I’m the light in a child’s eye on Christmas morn
seeing me adorned with a big red ribbon
beside the tree with its dazzling light display
twinkling brightly and fresh-cut pine fragrance.
I am the joy in that child’s voice at my response
to his first push against the pedal blocks under
the steadying grasp of his trusted dad,
oblivious to the snow and icicles
on the old oaks hanging over the country lane,
putting the crowning touch on my resplendent