Spring: first warm day of the year.
Up ahead, a woman,
Middle aged, cotton dress,
Eyes narrowed against the unaccustomed sun,
Peers with some anxiety in my direction.
Gate swings open beside her,
Motorbike rolls out, decrepit sidecar,
Huge, gray-bearded rider, long white hair,
Something frail about him, despite his size;
Aging Colossus, sick but still astride.
Engine quietly mutters its approach,
Beatific smile slowly spreads
Across that pale, half-ruined face.
I know nothing of these vehicles
Or the passions they inspire,
But even I can hear,
-- Perhaps with the mind's ear only --
As this ancient centaur emerges yet once more,
Against the odds, as it looks, for another year,
Caressing the throttle as he murmurs by,
The long, deep, rumbling growl of satisfied desire.
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