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Poem

secured in place
upon painted seat
spokes crisscross at its heart
       neither useful
positioned to gain dismissed attention 
the 'art', of course, is a parody of itself
named a 'readymade'
a concept 
- to make you think

we all need that 
as we run without rims
upended 
   
we are not a concept
built all wrong 
or all right

people might scoff
as I talk about 
a seat
and a bicycle wheel

spend time observing it 
and reflecting
      I need to still my heart
so direct my focus 
considering spaces   between   spokes
over 100 years ago

this photo, absent of background 
who made that decision 
that the backdrop 
isn't part of the art?

dirt on the legs
shows there was a before 
or a carefully crafted impression of one
through squinted eyes 
is any frame adequate to make a whole?

in on the joke or part of it
I don't know, but it's thinking fodder
as long as Monsieur Duchamp 
never tried to sell it to me
then I'll allow him head space 
rent-free
as I compare supports to ladders 
     reassemble the vision
recognise the wheel atop 
won't steady my climb 

that seat will be part of a set
prior to that it was raw wood
a tree
a seed
a future event
there are so many points 
to become something

I've less to say now
those parts don't long 
for what might have been
nor recognise 
they've come a long way

this is just a moment
part of a   very  long  time
we won't crash and burn
if forced to be still 
whilst atom by atom 
becoming something else
all those shed pieces 
disappear 
and we are what is left

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