like the mountain that stands, it’s there in the crowd in a weekday rush. it is morning, an underground tunnel, and a clearing for the white, wiry rust that he leans against the waist. mud cakes the tires; rags wind around the handles. it’s not something to notice really— it can’t fold up for the convenience of others nor does it shine so brilliantly in a dark metallic-like black.
but i could get away on it.
let it take me somewhere like a mountain, a new grandeur unseen in my commonplace commute, route, and life. it is a soft pearl blankness, a canvas for color and charisma, because that’s what it was built for— it was built to last, and built to endure whatever stakes so high or low to be faced. i see it here in this now, in this well-worn age, simple and patient and blank. it is a morning commute. the trains are filled with the rush and excitement, of only the people they carry.
i see now that fastened to the bottom are new pedals, bright and neon green. a good omen here— for there is yet to be life, life all over again for the steel vagabond.