John Budan
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Less than five minutes. When I return, all I find is a broken lock lying on the sidewalk. I want to scream, cry, and shake my clenched fists toward the sky. It’s a custom builder, especially light and responsive, with a triple Monique structure and arc slope triangle. It took me a year to assemble as available parts and finances allowed, and can never be replaced. The bike is my soul, a part of who I am.
The eleven-mile walk home does little to alleviate the anger and nausea I feel. I imagine my ten-thousand-dollar pride being sold at a pawn shop for maybe fifty bucks. Or perhaps it was traded on the street for a couple of grams of meth or an ounce of coke. It is difficult for me to imagine compassion or forgiveness for the perpetrator. And though I realize everything in life is transitory, I continue suffering by longing for my best friend.
on a city street
carved initials in cement
flooded with spring rain
the drowned promises
of passing love
About the Author
John Budan has published widely. He lived in France where he found his alter ego Guignol in Paris at the Jardin du Luxembourg.