My Words, My World

Motorcycle

The road keeps rolling under two spinning wheels

and your eyes are peeled;

for anything and everything

and the heat of the engine burns your knees

as the cool air kisses your skin

and with the visor down you can see the bugs hit your face

while the wind plucks at your jacket with its airy fingers

as you change up and change down

and your ankle stiffens like a rusty bolt

and you sweat; you sweat

and the inside of your crash helmet smells like a wet dog

but it’s all OK because that’s a motorcycle;

that’s my motorcycle.

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