The Rust

The neighbor's kid goes past the gate

while I am running very late.

His training wheels make a tinny sound

against the cold and gravel ground.

I find the frame against the wall,

behind the boxes in the hall.

The tire is flat, the rubber dry,

under a heavy, sunless sky.

A spider built a silver net

across the spokes I haven't met.

I promised you a ride in May.

The summer simply slipped away.