Frangible Life
She sits on the rim of a stone planter
in a tiny park named after a monster
on a day unseasonably hot
Raven hair and sharp cheek bones
remind every glance
of yesterday’s beauty. She stares at her feet
scuffs the toe of her worn tennis shoe
on a dried wad of tobacco and gum
Glances at an engine’s noisy passing
Is it too late? Is it too late to learn how to drive
a motorcycle, get a license, buy a Harley
Roll a green sleeping bag
Cord it with a water bottle and folded map
Sissy bar and full dresser pack
on-the-road soap and a once-white cotton towel
Fit a donated helmet to a now-clear head
adjust borrowed shades against the wind
rev the motor clever and tough
by a flick of a handlebar wrist
Take off
Take off
Take off
Down the road the lonesome highway the route to sixty-six
degrees of separation free at last
spell the words on a map across the country: free sober free
at last looks back down at the scum at her feet
her only need is for relief her only currency
worn sex
the sound of the engine fades and with it
the image of herself
as anything but here
Copyright 2007 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.
All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.