A Bicycle and a Recliner

My recliner holds my body,
pondering,
looking through the windows
at the mountains on the horizon.

The mountains are green with shapes.
They look like a throw
left on a bed in a sunny morning
after sleeping was done.
Wrinkled with waves
that hides something.

Just past the swarm of little houses
someone left a bicycle.
The sun hits it. Getting warm
in the forever California spring.

The mountain is not calling.
It's just there, holding.
But the bicycle is calling.
It probably has a warm seat.
It would be interesting to ride the bicycle.
Maybe.

My gaze drifts back indoors.
My walls. The white ceiling. The light bulb
in the spherical lampshade.
The lampshade and the bicycle
both are round.
One a sphere, one a circle.
Both give us something.

That bicycle is imaginary.
I just put it there.
But nobody's stopping me
from thinking about the bicycle,
and reaching for it.
Except... I like my recliner.