Alfalfa and Rusted Bicycles

Random shoots of alfalfa grew
along the perimeter of the barn
like a scattered trail left by a child
ending at the entry door.

Light filtered through the wooden slates
revealing a rusted bicycle hidden behind the plow
with a little oil and it would be as good as new.

The rubber on the tires was cracked but held air,
an old t-shirt and some rope to repair the seat,
the foot pedals still rotated 'round and 'round
once the chain's attached the bike will be ready to go.

First around the the barn
crushing the alfalfa sprouts
down the path up the hill 
then back down again.

Grandpa told me the bike 
belonged to Uncle Joe
he did not like riding 
the horse drawn bus


so he flew passed pumping as hard as he could
did this until he fell in love then took long walks
with his Lucille, carrying her books, 
chewing on an alfalfa twig 'til he learned to smoke. 

He forgot about the bike when he got his Chevy.
I heard him laugh out loud when he saw me 
riding by on his discarded piece of junk.