Red~ by David Seth Smith


I had a battered bicycle
When I was ten
Red, as much from rust
As paint
The chain guard was missing
The bell, feeble
Barely audible
Over my wheeze as
Two boys tried to steal it
I outraced them
But it taught me
Nothing is too broken
To be coveted

There was a newsstand
On the corner in those days
Old Larry
Yellowed, kind eyes
British cap
Cigarettes at thirty cents
A pack
For my father
Who drank alone at home
With a war he never left
Yet my father, nonetheless
Reinforcing the point.

© David Seth Smith 2013

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