Tots nowadays outgrow toys faster than you can wonder
at a purple trike with red handlebars left on grass to glow
misty and alone, as it waits to return to motion, to be
in circuit after circuit, pedalled over Dufferin’s rolls . . .
before the wees and the boys and girls steal home and
it is parked on the slope by the giant green ma maple
to embrace lonely
the morning after
detached from any owner, in the way of broken toys;
But ready with sun-up to bear the local brood
who have not wheels of their own, or who
on chance patrol
notice red handlebars, run to it
grab hold and go.