Thursday, 19 April 2007

Inanimate Objects Have Too Much Time On Their Hands

The red paint flakes and wheels rust
The lone trike stares; saddening solidarity
It wishes and wonders- no friends
Left in the Scottish sun
The lights change and my face
Pressed against the cold, cold glass
Moves on and I smile goodbye
The journey begins and the trike yearns
To travel too; I can tell
Another road for me
Green gold glad- a different place
But family familiar
We rumble and trundle
Bass pumping vibrating to bypass boredom
Traffic cone lyrics flash past the melody
Takes a turn
An new road- track 3 to 4
The trike never lived a life like this
I smile and sigh as the sun blesses the car with a kiss.

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