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

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