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Red Ride
The warnings are out there:
Don’t do it, don’t get involved,
stay clear of temptation. Best
let growling beasts alone.
Sure we’ll end up two flies
on windshields, mothers,
friends wag fear fingers in our faces.
It rumbles red between legs
surges up our thighs into our hearts--
beating sparrow wings. Our hands
in black leather grip tight, throttle revs
engine and we sail, glide
on blacktop, our wheels spin,
chrome glistens dinnertime
pinks and blues. Jackets billow,
and flap, warm summer wind licks
our necks. Gold fields flank
roving ribbon road. We lean into
curves, shoulders tip to ground.
Our fingers grip and turn, we kick it
in, ride, two blue herons
surfing wind currents,
wings spread wide.
Diane
Sherman / February 2008 |
