An Old Yellow Motorcycle

An old yellow motorcycle

Stares at me

Begging to be ridden

But I am pretty sure

It is just decor for the bar

He flashes his headlight at me

In Morse code

Telling me that he belongs on the streets

With the wind in his face

Driving towards a setting sun

Down an old road

That twist and turns

While the birds

Try to keep up

His passion has me hooked

So I finish my drink

And head over

I sit on him and grab the handle bars

They feel old

And a strange sensation travels up my spine

And into my brain

This old yellow motorcycle

Has a soul in it

The bartender yells at me to get off

But it’s too late

I am in a dream now

Something else has taken over

I turn the key

And stomp down

He awakens

With a giant rumble of his engine

Its a cry of freedom

The whole bar stops and stars

Their mouths open

With their drinks in their hands

And exhaust

Filling their lungs

A huge smile spreads across my face

And I hit the gas

We navigate through the crowd

Through the screams and spilled drinks

And make it through the door

Where we take a hard right

And hit the open road

Headed towards

A sunset

He pops a wheelie and honks his horn

He’s free again

And I can’t help

But feel free too.



-C.H.

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