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Seven thirty, Friday morning
To rescue you in the winter was my task,
My Schwinn Mountaineer, a summer comrade.
Covered in dust, the magenta masked,
Pedals start whirling like beaters gone mad.
There have been times I’d rather be crawling,
But in your handlebars we have a trust.
Your spokes are rusty now, snow is falling,
But we soldier on, sidewalk before us.
Anger towards my mom is crushed in your grips,
I kick off, now ice wind has begun to strike.
This morning she had no room for snide quips,
That’s how I ended up on this old bike.
The spinning tires halt, now set on the rack,
Don’t insult your mom- there’s no going back.