Spokes in the Apple Orchard (Poem)

Dear Diary,

Sometimes I wish I was a bike. Bikes don’t need to know anything. They don’t need to check for the weather. Parts of them can easily be replaced. Maybe I would have a mechanical arm attached so that I could pick up heavy objects. Like a tree! I’d take the whole entire tree! Instead of just an apple, why not take the whole orchard? I’d roll through the field waiting for the rain to fall, because I didn’t need to check the app. Because, of course, that’s what bikes do. 

I could be any colour and it wouldn’t matter. Blue, like the jay. Orange, like a pumpkin. Or gold like a crown. I actually think I’d be green with daisies all over me. But wait! How could I be covered like a field of flowers and still be built for the raging storms? Bikes never get tired but they do wear down.

I’d have to be locked up, because many would covet me and my mechanical arm. Humans can’t be locked up. You can’t fill them with air, you can’t paint them with whichever colour you think suits them best. In fact, they might be a bit upset if you tried. 

I’d rust as the apples in that orchard rot. My scrapes would be painted over or left alone, when my flesh can already mend itself. 

I’d make people mad at town hall meetings, as they scream like banshees. Screams that would echo across the orchard. I’d become a pawn for politicians to placate their constituants. Some would curse my floral, fruity, and metallic existence, while others would write books about my adventures of crushing the apples beneath my rubber tires.

I would hide amongst the fruitless trees, surrounded by the dying daisies. They would be a sheild against the intruders that want to dismantle my metallic arm. My brakes would be broken. And I, a bike, would lie in the middle of it all.

My spokes would be made of daisy stems and would hold my wheels together, as they forbid my use. But I would be used anyway.

Love,

the Apple Orchard Lover