My Silver Wind tricycle needs
the rain to remind its rusted wheels
of speed. Sitting since childhood
in the garage of memory,
it receives dust’s thin epitaph
for having been on Earth.
Pencils from my jackknife pencil box
sleep their lead away in a plastic
communal grave somewhere
in the basement of forgotten
supplies and window screens that long
for the rust wind brought them.
All those old Reds and White Sox
ball caps, cotton and wool,
lying about the closet of things gone
keep trying, when I open
the door, to be more than the broken
duck bills they are; two cereal box rings,
a Roy Rogers saddle and a Captain
Midnight decoder have lost most
of their power to make me throw
my leg over a broom and ride off
into the sunset behind
the apartment building.
Copyright by Ron Houchin.
Used with the author's permission.