My eyes are drawn
First, to the bike.
Immaculate, sleek, defined. This is the treasure of one who tends, with care. Both helmets perfectly placed, one hanging, as it should, from the handlebar, ready at moment’s notice. The second, lain in wait, nestled securely in cradle, eager for a second rider.
The spokes define the wheels, all aglow, bright silver against black rubber. HONDA, blocked, parallels the concrete slabs below. Decals, lit fire. Acute bumps against obtuse and apexes in a leather cushion, providing an unexpected yet perfect perch.
And so, unexpectedly, he perches, perfectly.
how did he get it so clean on such a sodden day?
Behind him, there’s a collection of less significant bikes. Parked for the hour, perhaps the day. They don’t mean as much.
Lotus is scrawled in rushed, looping black letters, trailing down the narrow white wall.
And I wonder what that might mean.
But, in the end, in this frozen moment in time,
He is what demands my attention.
He sends his gaze downward, greying hair framing his lined face, shadowing his black leather jacket.
is he content
wondering what is or what might be?
without a doubt, his thoughts are on what was
He balances, safe off the ground. Legs – almost crossed – soles of bare feet touching, arm propped on knee, hands holding him in place, anchored, trenchant. He looks down, and away.
anywhere but here
And I have two questions.
what is he looking at
what has he seen