Your trouser legs safely pinned up,
hat tilted to one side,
the sunrays playing with your salt and pepper hair.
“Care for a ride? Come hop on to the carrier.” You offered.
Your hands on the handle of your stylish bicycle.
“Remember, how I taught you to ride a bicycle,
you used to be so petrified.”
Then we guffawed together.
“I remember how you used to climb up to the ridge
of the roof and straddle it; such a prankster!
With a big pout, you clambered off the roof,
when I shouted at you”.
You again tilted your hat at a rakish angle.
“This is what your generation calls swag.” You chuckled.
“Dad, which generation are you talking of, huh?
I am no longer young;
I know, your tongue was always wedged in your cheek.
You exist in a time warp, dad.”
I swallowed. You were gone.
So soon? Stop, dad, stop.
But, you hopped on to your bicycle and were gone –