I left the pub on Tuesday,
Ready to race the cars,
But straight from my bike,
Someone had stolen my bars,
First came shock,
I couldn’t believe my eyes,
But as it settled in,
My mind filled with why’s?
Then came a swelling rage,
Could nothing now be done,
The pub had cameras on the wall,
But the police’s interest was none.
As I settled on the bus,
With my top tube bare,
I felt naked and lonely,
Sadly reflecting on the unfair.
The next day came the admin,
A dull insurance form,
Finding the local bikeshop,
They told me this is the norm.
So the bike is in the bikeshop,
And the form is in ether,
And though you might wish it,
This poem can’t be briefer.
I’ve covered the six stages,
Of grief for my bike,
But acceptance takes a little longer,
Than any of us would like.
Who stole my bike I ask myself,
In many a different place,
But try and try as I might,
I can’t imagine their face.
Was the thief in need,
Of a little ready cash,
Or was it simple greed,
That put my bike in their stash.
Perhaps one day some time ago,
Their friend showed them how,
The Allen key like so,
Then the wire clippers, Pow!
60 seconds maybe less,
And the gear is yours,
Sure you’ve made a little mess,
But progress is the cause.
Perhaps you needed the money,
At least when you started out,
And haven’t you ever noticed,
There’s always bikes about.
Maybe making a living’s hard,
On the streets where you grew,
Maybe society left you out,
And we shouldn’t blame you.
Perhaps you think of me,
And the others just the same,
As you list our stuff on eBay,
Behind some fake name.
Perhaps you think us lucky,
To be so very rich,
That we deserve what we get,
When you get the itch.
I’m accepting your choices,
Though they caused me strife,
But I hope you find a kinder,
Way to pay your way through life.