Transitions

No direction home,
there's a young man
on a motorcycle
revisiting Highway 61
on his way to somewhere.
Old power lines
on the low side of the road
hum forgotten lyrics.
The snow of last season
retreats to the ditches
destined to lose this
trench warfare.
And he stops the bike
at a little diner
on the shores of Lake Superior.

He notes something different
about the waitress
as she sits him down
a genuine smile that lights up
azure eyes
and he knows she loves what she does
but if he leaves,
she'll never be there when he comes back
or she won't be the way he remembers her.
She trots off on long shiny white legs
to hear the cook's latest joke and to bring him
the young man's order.
And it starts to gently rain
and the young man watches it tap
against the windows like a long-lost
lover begging to be taken back.

And he wants to stay in that diner forever.

He has the peculiar feeling that,
under this roof that holds back
the clinging of winter's chill,
no matter who you are or where you came from,
you will always be beautiful in that place.

But then he remembers
that outside world
of rain and responsibility
and he thinks,
No, let me just stay a little longer
A little longer
A little longer...

The waitress brings him
one more cup of coffee
and then he rises and strides out
into the hard rain that's a-fallin'
starts the bike
and takes off
around a curve,
bending and twisting
around the lake.

There's nothing
else for it—
just to keep driving
listening to the roar
of the engine
and trying not to dwell on
the fact that these
moments will be forgotten
like
tears
in the
rain.