Ghost Gears

I had to move the stack of old newspapers

to get to the frame leaning in the corner,

buried under a tarp that smells like wet wool.

The tires are flat, pressed into the concrete

until the rubber looks like a cracked map

of a country I don't live in anymore.

I remember the way the air used to feel

when I’d stand on the pedals to beat the light,

a heavy grease stain blooming on my calf

like a badge of something reckless and fast.

I tried the hand pump, watching the gauge,

but the sidewalls just hissed and exhaled.

The chain is a stiff, rusted orange now;

it won't catch the teeth, won't turn the wheel.

I put the tarp back over the handlebars,

leaving the ghost of my twenty-fourth year

to wait for a season that isn't coming back.