The white bike
on the industrial strip
collects its dust.
No one passes.
No one cares
about the memorial
to the biker lost beneath
the vulcanized rubber
of that fourteen wheeler.

No one comes to see
the blood of this victim.
Even I, writing about it,
cannot be bothered to learn
the name of the dead.
We live too fast.
We don’t stop
to smell the bones break
and the sirens wail.

No one knows who suffered here.
Not even me.
Not even the dead.