I don’t know where it came from.
Just a bowel deep growl
that took me
as I tapped it into first.
And knowing I hadn’t seen
a cop
or commuter
or a minivan
in a few minutes
I felt compelled
to twist the grip
until the back side slid
and caught
with a high-sided snap
and the rear wheel gripped.
I watched the pointer
of the tach jump.
The needle
of the speedo
gyp’d passed all the lower numbers
and the cuffs on my pants
danced on my shins
and the cool wind
flapped up my jeans
like water
under pressure.
The road took on
an amplified quality
each tiny motion
building on itself
each small bump
rippling into a panic attack
each twist a thought less effort
each thought
an immediate order
to be obeyed--
consequential.
And when I hit the Ton
the smallest touch on the grip
swore to the road
and explained itself
like a spy
who shit in his pants
when the gallows floor
dropped.
I was affraid to look down.
To confirm.
I could only see
where I was going
and had not one care
for where I had been.
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