It was chained to the parking meter in front of my apartment. It had been a week since I'd seen it facing another direction. It had a thick layer of red duct tape around each handle bar, covering its original black color. It had a frame built for a large person, although I suspected a petite teenager rode it.
It was a month ago now-I have yet to see it's owner whom I'd suspected was a teenager, although I'm told otherwise by the upstairs neighbor, "It belong to little man with black beard". It had an owner who was consistent with the way it was chained. It takes precision and time to wrap it the way he does. It must have looked odd the day I sat on my stoop staring at its artful diligence for half the day. It was still there after the new year, streamers haphazardly intertwined throughout its spokes. It wasn't until I heard the upstairs neighbor scramble down the stairs that I knew I should run out and meet her. "It gone away!", she uttered, resting her arm on my shoulder catching breath.
(i sat down with the intention to write a quick story beginning each sentence with the word "It". this was what came to me.)