were the antlers of a stately stag in rut.
Yesterday they were coathangers,
wires flexing with my clutch.
Some days they are noodles
twitching just beyond my reach,
but today they were proud and poised
leading me on my way.
Your pedals today were nonstick pans,
feet floating off each prance,
your pedals are outsized jam lids,
the screws don't fit my shoes.
But yesterday, oh yesterday they were as cut
diamonds set in gold,
holding my legs as precious stones,
they were bright, beautiful and bold.
Your saddle, you'll be sorry to hear,
is sharpened, shining razor wire.
The leather is as polished hardwood,
beautiful but duty misunderstood.
The shape is as an arrow's head
pointing, firing, taking aim, shooting
angry shafts at my oh so tender rear.
Your frame is as Isambard Brunel
designed his elegant structures,
clear lines and functional,
an object of much desire.
Your frame is as strokable
as a kitten's softest fur,
an animal grace all your own;
I'm humbled to be yours.
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