Easy riding high on the hog
tattooed and sunburnt arms
hands on the bars
bandana holding wild hair
in check
rock and roll blaring
its defiance
“Now it’s up to you!
We can make a
secret rendezvous!
Just me and you!”
and then
sudden quiet
as a clear womanly voice
calls, “In 250 feet…
turn left.
Turn left.”
“That’s why I’m…
hot-blooded!” and so on
expectedly and anticlimactically
in all his bronzed and chrome
he turned left
turned left as told
as Foreigner played on
singing about how
they’re driven wild
by the sweet, sweet thing
of a tight looking child


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