The faded cover settled crisply over the handlebars and taillight

ghosting the slender skeleton standing quiet in the cold garage.

A mummified exhibit in an old closed zoo.

I listen for echoes of an energetic summer,

the engine sound bounding off the block walls,

the twang of the stand retracting

and the solid clunk of first gear.

But today’s smell of stale petrol and cold oil

hover around the broom and rake

leaning easy on the dusty drooping cover

that creaks stiffly under my hand

as I sweep rubbish from the seat.

I want to taste excitement high in my throat,

like a child’s easy squeal of fun,

but today’s weary winter wind blows thick with exhaustion.

One day the cover will come off

I promise.