DC Playwrights

choking back the tears,
as he placed a bouquet of flowers
by the lamppost, squirrel said,
“this is where they stole my bicycle.”

“that bicycle was stolen 13 years ago.
besides you hardly rode that bike.”
“it’s a wound that never heals,”
muttered the squirrel.

“come to think of it,
i don’t think you ever rode that bike once.
i am the one who
left it here when i went inside
to pick up junot diaz’s new book.”

“never heals,”
snapped the squirrel.
“you just don’t get it, carbon foot print man,”
he said walking away
angry, sad, and betrayed.

“you never rode that bike,”
i yelled down the street.
“your feet couldn’t reach the pedals.”

thinking of nothing else to say,
i said unthinkingly,
“you wanna get an iced latte?”
“like that is going to make the pain go away,”
he whimpered.

“i’m buying.”
pausing, confused, and thirsty,
“okay,” said the squirrel.