The Shapes

The cinnamon black
Bear walked by the pile
Of assembled crap
Left at the wayside
By the junk-bike man.

Who was junk-bike man?
No one seemed to know.
He wasn’t there now.
Could have been sleeping
In the spruce below.

The bear ambled on.
If it had disturbed
Or snuffled around
The bike piled with junk,
It had found nothing

Worth a bear’s breakfast,
And it kept moving.
This was in August,
Back in Canada,
Where hungry bears are

Common all summer.
The bear formed one shape,
The bike’s detritus
Pyramid on wheels
Balanced another.