The Two-Wheeled Alternate

The dashboard is a graveyard of warnings.

The check engine light glows a steady amber,

a small, expensive sun rising on my debt.

The savings account is a dry well,

so I go to the shed and pull the blue tarp back.

The mountain bike has been sleeping deep

under a pile of spiders and empty paint cans.

I touch the drive-train and it sheds

orange flakes of dry-rotted chain,

a fine iron snow settling on the concrete.

The tires are flat as a Friday afternoon.

I pump until my lungs burn and the pump nozzle

hisses a thin, mocking breath of air.

It isn't a vehicle; it’s a heavy metal ghost

waiting to stain my pants and break my shins.