You left it chained to wrought iron rail
Where zinc roof tiles curve and pale
The chain has drunk three winters' rain
Now orange blooms on every vein
The basket holds a dried bouquet
Gathered on a market day
That cobalt frame still holds your weight
Though rubber cracked on both the tires
You rode it down Rue Lepic straight
Past sacristy and choir spires
The terrace keeps its quiet watch
Above the gray slate roofs that catch
Where Haussmann chimneys scratch the sky
The derailleur froze, won't turn, won't fly
The seat leather cracked like old parchment
Maps the shape of where you went
Your cassette tapes still smell like incense
The alto line you used to sing
Now rust writes psalms in slow sequence
On metal that forgets the spring
The spokes once caught the noon sun's fire
Now dull as prayer beads on a wire
That cobalt frame still holds your weight
Though rubber cracked on both the tires
You rode it down Rue Lepic straight
Past sacristy and choir spires
Morning bell rings from Saint-Pierre
You breathe the scale in solfege air
The bike becomes a prayer you bear
A hymn of rust and silver hair
The handlebar tape unspools like ribbon
White cotton grayed by years of grip
You trace the places fingers given
Before the chain let go and slip
The bell still rings a minor third
A note the neighborhood has heard
That cobalt frame still holds your weight
Though rubber cracked on both the tires
You rode it down Rue Lepic straight
Past sacristy and choir spires
Now rust sings alto in the wires
Blue frame catches morning light
Rust sings alto in the light
