THE SAND HILL REVIEW http://www.sandhillreview.org 2001
May
The Harley-Davidsons line the curb of the
one-block main street,
angled over their kick-stands in gleaming
repetitions of form,
chrome exhaust pipes polished to reflect each
other's lines,
gas tanks jeweled with metallic paint so deep
it pulls me in
to a memory of wind in my face, riding pillion
with a man
who grew older and afraid of sliding out.
The bikers fill the street and sidewalk,
hundreds of them
in black leather, not shiny like the bikes but
worn and creased
into familiar folds, like a love affair of
long standing.
They murmur in groups, buy food, wait for
something to happen
in this crumbling gold rush town where
paint-peeled walls
echo the silent tales I spin about their
lives.
I smile at a few. Most of them have hair as
gray as mine.
They smile back. But I lack the courage to crash their party.
I leave town with the man I came with,
a riff of Raggle-Taggle
Gypsies thrumming in my head,
and a list of other things I might regret not
having done.