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.