He's old
with a
white beard
& ponytail
& in
winter he
wears a
motorcycle
jacket as
a windbreaker.
People at
check-out stands
kept saying
things like
it's a
little cold
to be
riding
motorcycle
isn't it &
watch for
black ice &
one woman
gave him her
phone number
& said
call me if
you go on
the road &
want company.
That night he
went to
the garage
with a
flashlight &
pulled the
tarp off
his 45
flathead Harley
with the
tank shift &
suicide clutch
that he hadn't
ridden in
fifty years.
He ran
his hand
over the
tank &
then replaced
the tarp
& left
the garage.
Before he
was halfway
back to
the house,
his last
dream vanished.
(reposted with the author's permission)
