My bicycle gave birth to a tricycle!
The wheeled tiny one is patterned like an icicle.
Its tires breathed out the very first cry,
It wanted more air, and boy did it try!
With the baby pump we filled its tires,
Cut its zip ties with a set of baby pliers.
It tried to roll around but didn’t know how.
Its tires stuttered, sweat on its handle-brow.
After some tries it gaily wheeled away,
But couldn’t yet break, ran into a café.
Weeks went by and brought more tire tracks,
And then, one day, when we turned our backs.
We heard a “Ding!” as clear as ice,
It grew a bell and didn’t need advice.
Ringing away at people and the weather,
Dinging on the street and sometimes in the heather.
Now we’re waiting for the bikeberty weeks,
When it loses a tire and its bell creaks.
But that’s in the future, not just yet,
Now it’s just tire tracks, dusty or wet.