The Old Bicycle
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The old bicycle rusts in the corner of the shed—
wheels still true, the bell still workable—
a machine that carried me through the whole kingdom
of the neighborhood, before the maps were observable.
I knew every house by its gate and its dog,
every shortcut, every hill that earned speed—
the bicycle was freedom before I knew freedom,
the first instrument of the independent deed.
I cannot throw it away. It holds too much—
the skinned knees, the wind, the going fast—
some objects are not furniture but memory,
and this one carries a world from the past.
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The old bicycle rusts in the corner of the shed—
wheels still true, the bell still workable—
a machine that carried me through the whole kingdom
of the neighborhood, before the maps were observable.
I knew every house by its gate and its dog,
every shortcut, every hill that earned speed—
the bicycle was freedom before I knew freedom,
the first instrument of the independent deed.
I cannot throw it away. It holds too much—
the skinned knees, the wind, the going fast—
some objects are not furniture but memory,
and this one carries a world from the past.
