The commuters are pushing to get to the gate

The commuters are pushing to get to the gate,

running to trains so they won’t have to be late.

I’m stopped at the rack by a ghost of a ride,

with no one to steer it and no one inside.

The wheels are both gone and the seat is a wreck,

with a U-lock still tight on the skin of its neck.

The blue paint is bubbling and losing the fight,

to the rain and the salt and the cold of the night.

I nudge at the frame with the side of my shoe,

to see if the metal is solid and true.

Small flakes of orange fall down on the street,

landing like copper around my own feet.