Sunday, September 15, 2013


She bade him stay; he walked away
 and fired his Harley's ire.
 She heard his rage in those chrome pipes
 and in the burning tire.

He hit the street with throttle held;
 he'd show her anger's skill;
 and never did he turn to see
 the cage with bulk to kill.

She buried him one rain drenched day
 upon a green hillside
 and on his cross, an albatross
 hung for his ghost's last ride.

The day passed slow; while moon was low
 the sky began to clear,
 while still she knelt at that dirt mound
 and spent her final tear.

Across the sky, a thousand Harleys--
 all in black and chrome--
 rumbled as the long-dead riders
 called a brother home

The ground would shake and open up;
 one more would ride the skies,
 and ride to chase the demon spawn
 of rage with glow'd red eyes.
                        --Monty Wheeler

1 comment: