Patch-job
On the first day of the year
My cycle had a flat tire.
After a moment of irritation,
I walked with her
Each step taking
A little more of my breath.
Air, I wish, had stayed inside.
I filled her up, soon enough
And I was off, feeling the wind
Against my face
Like we always did,
Together.
When I mounted her again, later
I felt her buckle under my weight,
Groaning, soft and silent.
It wasn’t a flat. It was a puncture.
I left her for a while,
Seething in anger
At the very audacity of the year
To demand so much from me
On the very first day —
Why can’t things just work?
As my anger settled into
A burning glow of coals,
I walked with her again, further,
To the mechanic I trusted to touch her
Feel her gaps, and patch her up.
While he did, I held her hand.
And I couldn’t help but think,
How every night
She held mine,
As I pedalled hard
Patching the holes in me.
Akshay G. is a black blur in the nights on the streets, finding his way with his bicycle, Tanya.
