Chain Rust

Chained to the post, a rusted spine,

the frame all orange, thin and fine

with decay. A spider's thread,

across the spokes, silently spread.

The tires flat, a heavy slump,

a lonely, forgotten, metal hump.

The seat cracked open to the sky,

where weeds pushed up, growing high

around the pedals, stuck with grit.

A chain creaked, a sound that split

the air, just for a moment, then gone.

Another day of waiting dawned.

I saw the light hit, soft and low,

on the web, a silver show

of neglect. No rider came.

Just rust, and stillness, and the frame.