Back Light

Someone has locked a bicycle to the railing by the bakery and left the back light on.

It blinks at the shutter, at the bin, at me, the steady red of a thing that thinks it is still in traffic.

Nobody behind it. Nobody coming. The battery keeps its own small arithmetic: twice a second, all evening, it spends itself on being seen.

I could bend down and press it off. It's the kind of favour strangers do and never hear about.

I leave it. Someone will come out of a warm room at ten, see it from the corner, and know which one is theirs.