ábyrgð

Today my upper arm jangles like the links hanging over the bicycle's crossbar, securing it to the porch pillar. Every day I crunch the little key into the lock, grind it against whatever crud has lodged in the works over two years of holding the cycles fast against kleptomaniacal, jersey-clad drunks. Then I ride off, holding myself on the heels of my hands, feeling wrists elbows shoulders -- one firm, one rattling over the potholes.

I imagine boney tumblers in the joint. Are they gritty? Frosted? Oiled too stingily or (I fear) too generously?

And where is the key? It must be here somewhere.