Trailing smoke over dotted white lines

I pull out of the driveway 

balancing a windshield, rust-pocked fender, and 322 lbs of me and my Honda 90 

without toppling over

check the rearview mirror 

for cars, ignore the weight 

of the mailbox collecting unpaid bills,

accelerate past a billboard 

advertising life insurance.

Straddling the motorcycle, 

I ride bareback, trailing smoke 

over dotted white lines,

buzzing past traffic’s static

(the whoosh of wave after wave 
of commuters vying for promotions, or their kid’s next soccer game win).

My ears grasp for freedom

in the roar of my engine 

and the spray of stray gravel 

flicking against hubcaps

On the side of the road, 

through the gap 

between my handlebars, 

three worn-out bikes pause, 

lean against men 

with white beards and stained t-shirts sharing something or other out of a plastic Big Gulp cup

when they look up, their eyes 

drink in a tear-shaped sparrow 

she ruffles her wings into fans 

catches wind between her feathers,

flies

the breeze flutters  

around an azure truck 

and the powder blue fringes 

of my cut-off jeans

At the stop sign, I pause,

inhale milk weeds twitching 

with sunlight,

butterflies dancing 

through rose mallow blooms

in the field where flowers 

never go naked 

 

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