Free Wheeling

 

I noticed him on the side of

the expressway, trying to

get an ancient motorcycle

started. He was lifting his

body up high and dropping down

on the kickstart, trying to get

the engine to start, but it

wasn’t working.

 

The disappointment was

evident in the slump of his

old shoulders, his gray hair

blowing in the morning breeze,

as cars drove past.

His black leather vest fluttered

around his body.

His blue tee shirt was soaked with sweat.

 

The bike was dirty,

cluttered and looked like it

had been in great use in the

1980’s, but alas, it had seen

better days.

The small windshield was brown

with dust and dirt,

the body of the bike, dingy and old.

 

I imagined this older biker,

in some late-night bar the night before,

bragging to anyone who would listen

about his biking glory days and how tomorrow,

he’d take his sweet hog out and go tooling

around town, causing trouble and shaking

things up.

A Rebel.

 

I imagined the shots going down,

the beers being drunk, as he reveled in

anticipation for his free-wheeling motorcycle

adventure he planned.

The open road, the breeze in his hair,

the squares in their cars, never knowing the

excitement of seeing that one front tire

roll over endless concrete miles.  

 

The corners of his wrinkled eyes,

now tearing up, as he sat helplessly on

his old bike, on the side of the road,

one more defeat,

one more setback among

so many,

a blow to his soul,

as he realizes how few

more chances he may have,

to ride.

 

He tried the kickstart again,

the bike didn’t start.

I drove past.

On my own road.