Their throats roared to Harley heights: vroom-vroom

exhausts jarring neighborhood elders on front porch swings,

nipping harsh coffee from assorted mugs on a spring morning,

one of the first when they could sit outside since

cold ran off with snow that smashed their jonquils,

and now these boys in their ball caps and fat legs

rearing up on plastic motorcycles tearing up sidewalks,

their skinny sisters chasing aside them barefoot, screaming,

“It’s my turn, it’s my turn now,” but no, they just kept going,

never looking back, never noticing how those little girls

stubbed their toes on cement cracks, yelped, striking gravel chunks,

ran the dickens catching up, overtaking those sun struck boys,

shook the handle bars of their bikes, hounded the would be hot shots

to crank for more and more speed until all of them collided,

mouths ajar, scattered into a tableau of boys tumbling forward

on twisted big wheels with bloodied elbows and knee knobs;

girls, upright, sweating, tiny breasts heaving, silent, lovely.



Contents Next Poem Published Works