Fifteen
South of the bridge on Seventeenth
I found,one summerday,
a motorcycle with engine running
as it lay on its side,ticking over
slowly in the high grass.I was Fifteen
I admired all that pulsing gleam,the
shiny flanks,the shy headlights,
grass fringed where it lay;I led it gently,
to the road and stood with that
companion,ready and friendly.I was Fifteen
We could find the end of a road,meet
the sky on out Seventeenth.I thought about
hills,and patting the handle got back a
confident responce.On the bridge we indulged
a foward feeling,a tremble.I was Fifteen
Thinking,back further in the grass I found
the owner,just coming to,where we had flipped
over the rail.He hadblood on his hand,was pale-
I helped him walk to his machine.He ran his hand
over it,called me a good man,roared away.
I stood there,Fifteen