They took my bicycle

When Eisenhower saw me
I was just bones left
In the oven

No gristle or tendon for a dog
to gnaw on or an eyelash
to bat or blink to curiosity

In soldiers worn wool socks
huddle memories of my -
daughter’s hair reincarnated
in an aroma of burnt perpetuity

But only in black and white
do I witness the spokes of my bicycle
always turning away from me

In a glare at nervous laughter
he walked without smoking
and made
the others follow his boots
past us, stacked like
corded wood

Grease from my chain
formed us in a line
not unlike the ones
for bread

We bowed toward our hands,
our heads shaven, awaiting
shreds of stale scraps
until that too, ceased
- and I remembered the half rotten
strawberry I threw out before
they came, wishing…

Roy W Smith is a native of Bucks county Pa, he has been writing poetry and stories for over thirty years and has been published in River Heron review, Karla's 13 New Hope Poets, Apiary magazine, Bucks county writers magazine, New Zealand's Billstickers Cafe Reader, Bucks county Herald and others. He has studied at New York University NYU Tisch school of the arts and Bucks county community college. In a paraphrase of Einstein he believes that imagination is more important than knowledge. Roy is also a United States Army veteran. He served as a medic in the Middle East.