For the Adidas Superstars


The first to trash are the wheels,
nickel-plated spokes wrapped
in technicolor streamers.

The old saddle follows,
its caramel leather spotted with
splotches of haphazard grease.

Then the handlebar,
adorned with a bell
that’s lost its voice,

then the pedals,
scuffed at the edges and
chewed by the dog,

then the chains and cogs,
caked with the grime
of neighborhood races,

then the rear derailleur,
gooey with hundreds of
layers of WD-40,

then the front derailleur,
jammed with dark
purple silly putty.

The naked frame is sold
for the crumpled green faces that
stuff and swell your pockets.

As you walk to school with
bright new sneakers, a familiar
type of wind rushes past,

light with the fading laughter
of whirring gears. You shut your eyes
and try not to remember.



(© Phoebe Pan 2016)