To Buy a Bicycle

I lose her in the street market,

She slips silently away as I talk--

I find her at the hawker's table

Catatonic, she stares at the rarities,

“I'm sorry, I love old things.”

I am eager to leave, but walk over,

“Why?” She looks up,

but doesn't want to answer,

I wait, intrigued. “I like the stories.”

I wait, but she doesn't wish to speak,

She's busy with beautiful thoughts,

“Where these things come from,

How they came here -- who loved them....”

I regard the table, bicycle forgotten,

Her concepts cure my amnesia,

I remember I love the stories as well,

Blissful, I've left my purpose behind,

Content in remembrance and reverie,

Floating on the possibilities before me,

She cures my amnesia,

“Are we going to look at bicycles?”