Shelly had a bright yellow bike,
she rode it everywhere she went;
she’d ride it home
then she’d ride away
when she’d hear the yelling and breaking of dinner plates.
One night the cutlery wasn’t used for eating.
(Pitted paternity and empty bottles).
The screams were paved with gritty stings;
tarred with maroon.
Only the dirt roads heard.
And the longing steed?
It waited for its rider
for countless mornings after,
with deflated tires,
worn out gears,
and rusty brakes.
It was patient for many dusty millenniums
for the day of return on that tattered leather;
for her to ride her bright yellow bike once again
and to take it wherever she went.
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