Brian Beckage
Written around 1989 while an undergraduate student. A Seca is a motorcycle.
Motorcycle.
Wind whistling through my helmet visor
Crisp, cold, and rustling
The autumn leaves
That paint the shaded lane.
A hand closes tighter,
Soft, feminine against
The contours of my leathered chest
Timidly exploring while
My Seca roars
Through a tunnel of trees
Beside a river that blows a cool breath.
Both in silence, isolated
Together we skim the earth
A blur of metal, leather, and flesh.