For today’s piece, I wrote about someone who I knew I’d never be: a biker’s old lady. Let me fill in some back-story. A few years ago, one of my 8th grade students asked me if I was a biker when I was younger. I said no, and he said, “Oh, because one of my friends thinks you probably used to be hot.” J I can’t help but love that story, and wonder at its origins in this young man. In this piece, I imagine life as a biker chick. Yeah.
live to ride – ride to live
How could you not— hanging
onto the back
of some long haired biker—
tits so big they bruise against his back and
push your tiny tattooed heart
out through your black leather vest
until it floats upon your cleavage
like a small red feather,
bouncing with the current of the Harley
as it rumbles in between your legs.
High on the Shovelhead’s seat
through retro goggles
you regard the stretching highway.
Free for miles,
your hair whips a wild wake.
The tramp stamp on your lower back
personalizes a cliché
live to ride ~~ ride to live
blowing out the tailpipe of your old man’s ride.
Shout out to Writer's Island, where poets can post their work every day in April, and on Saturdays all year long.