There's a cycle outside the station, not
with the others, but on its own, against
a lamp post, shop lights silhouetting it
we keep looking at it, the saddle, tyres, the clamp,
she says she's lost the key, everything seems locked,
buildings, buses, cars, the beer can in the fist of
a man sprawled beneath a wall, a statue, the sky,
we step back, still examining its details, stillness,
lack of movement; note her fair hair, pinched lips,
catch each others eyes, look away
feeling as useless as death