Bicycle

                                            By Jeff Baker

                                

            The old man was there every day when I took my early-morning bike ride through the park. He was always sitting by the lamp that didn’t work.

            The old man always looked up when I rode by, but I never stopped. The old man looked like he was in his eighties. One day as I was pedaling by I noticed a bicycle leaning against the lamppost beside the park bench with the old man. And that the old man looked familiar.

            That night I realized that somehow the old man was me!

            So today when I go for my bike ride, I’ll stop. I’ll talk to him. Maybe we’ll go riding together.

            Maybe I won’t stop at all.

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