Bravo!

On Thursday, February 1, 2018 at 2:47:50 PM UTC-8, MartyG wrote:
>
>
> Many Super Blue Blood Moons ago, I penned this quaint verse for the now 
> lost and forgotten A. Homer Hilsen website. Kind of apropos to bring it up 
> in this thread, don't you think? 
>
>
>
> *The Resurrection of A. Homer Hilsen*
>
>
> There it was, there it sat.
>
> Bars akimbo, tires flat.
>
>  
>
> Cluster missing, saddle worn. 
>
> Dangling hemp-wrap. Dusty. Torn.
>
>  
>
> Rubbed the down-tube, read the name:
>
> A. Homer Hilsen – of Rivendell fame. 
>
>  
>
> I knelt to worship and wondered why.
>
> Lost, or stolen? Left to die?
>
>  
>
> Who would leave it? Could I? Could You?
>
> I asked around, nobody knew.
>
>  
>
> I felt linked like a chain to its ultimate fate,
>
> the local bike shop was open ‘till eight…
>
>  
>
> They told me the story of a man dressed in wool.
>
> He lived in the country, his glass always half full.
>
>  
>
> The bike was his passion, his comfort, his dream.
>
> Fittings for Mark’s rack, lugs filled with cream.
>
>  
>
> But no one had seen him, at least for a while.
>
> The man had moved on. My lips cracked a small smile. 
>
>  
>
> I asked the police what the policy was.
>
> They showed me the poster: Auction by Fuzz.
>
>  
>
> I showed up quite early, on the day of the deal.
>
> Misty and quiet, the sky painted like steel. 
>
>  
>
> I noticed the Hilsen being eyed by a punk,
>
> mixed in with the lawnmowers, car parts and junk.
>
>  
>
> He grabbed a brake lever and gave it a tug,
>
> Spat on a pedal, then moved on with a shrug.
>
>  
>
> The auction moved slowly, through toilets and tools,
>
> Something for everyone: the dealers, the fools.
>
>  
>
> And then it was up there, wheeled up by a cop.
>
> The pads squealed on the front rim. It came to a stop.
>
> The bidding began with the auctioneers’ pitch:
>
> “A handsome blue bike for the not quite so rich!”
>
>  
>
> It was me and the punk, and a man I could see
>
> who was standing alone near a lone Redwood tree.
>
>  
>
> It had to be mine. I just had to win.
>
> To let Homer go home without me was a sin!  
>
>  
>
> The punk shrugged again when three figures were spoke.
>
> Fished through his pockets, confirmed he was broke.
>
>  
>
> I looked near the tree, heard the faint ping of a bell,
>
> The auctioneer paused, raised the gavel. It fell. 
>
>  
>
> “It’s mine! Can’t believe it!” My grin ear to ear.
>
> I cashed out in seconds, lost a fight with a tear.
>
>  
>
> I wheeled Hilsen homeward and vowed to be kinder.
>
> Put him up on my work stand and loosened the binder.
>
>  
>
> I thought about fate, how I won, how I got’m.
>
> Flipped the frame in the stand to examine the bottom.
>
>  
>
> As soon as the upside was more downside than most,
>
> A small rolled up paper fluttered out from the post:
>
>  
>
> *“I’m happy you own me, the pleasure’s all mine.*
>
> *That punk would’ve stripped me and sold me for wine.”*
>
>  
>
> *“Now we can share them, those days on the road.*
>
> *Losing all count of the friendships we sowed.”*
>
>  
>
> *“You see, I’m attracted to people like you;*
>
> *People who dream of a journey or two.”       *
>
> *          A.H.H.*
>
>  
>
> I’m sure when I’m older, my legs tired of turning,
>
> I’ll think of this day; of the joy and the yearning.
>
>  
>
> I’ll pass it along to a like-minded good soul;
>
> dusty and weathered, but ready to roll.
>
>  
>
> The bike will live on, with new stories to tell;
>
> new owner, new road, and the faint ping of a bell.
>

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