By LING LIN
The bike he once rode to school –
its metal was rusted from years of use,
right brake broken after a sideways fall,
reflectors stolen at a shopping center,
front tire burst and patched –
The three times he fell from it
matched the three scars on his leg.
The bike squeaked every time he turned the pedals
as if it was threatening collapse
yet four years passed, and it survived.
Like a soldier, the bike was called out on mission time after time.
In order to honor its service,
the day after he graduated,
its owner dumped it at a recycling station and
gave it a chance to revive –
to be a lamp, to be a desk,
never to freaking be a bike.