The red bicycle under the porch,
And its rusted chain hangs down from the gears.
Its paint is rusting off;
Like the childhood memories of the boy who rode it.
The memories of riding it in the park on hot Saturday afternoons;
His bike riding comrades close by.
Then gliding in to his suburban driveway before the streetlights go on.
Then eventually he leaves his home;
And the bike is forgotten under the porch.
That’s where it remains to this day,
Waiting for more memories.