The bicycle clips turned him into a tweedy
Cossack, swinging from the saddle in our
drive – a baggy acrobat back from errands.

They lie in a bowl by the front door now,
tangled with tweezers, keys, gum and other
stuff tossed over when looking for change.

They were the only things I didn’t chuck
when I blindly bagged up his studio and
drove to the dump that bitter November.

I carry them, wear them as bracelets,
turn them like a prayer in my hands
when I want to bring him closer.

But they are what they are – tarnished
metal omegas flecked with yellow paint
– this heart will not be taken for a fool.

He said that once, stationed overseas,
the prickling collar of his khaki issue shirt
made him miss his mother with a wallop.

© Paarth Shukla