Now that I'm not
behind
your broad shoulders
I notice things that
weren't there before:
cold on my chin and
knees clasping the tank,
deer in the grain field,
wind's
rhythmic roar.
Focus on
asphalt,
rectangles of yellow,
my palm's getting numb
but I don't even care,
stop to talk to the natives,
but soon I grow restless;
and can hear the
bike
calling me back outside,
as we fly through the
twisties
fluid and graceful,
hey babe, I miss you,
but thanks for the ride.
imago 1997