The Intersection

Afternoon showers cool
the August twilight.

I sit on the corner
of Broadway and Franklin
sipping a coke, smoking a cigarette
and eyeing girls outside the yahoo
saloon across the street.

Cars roll past, tires
hiss & spit
on wet pavement.

A tremor shakes the air,
the sound of heavy metal
thunder in a canyon.

Pedestrians stop
& stare at the horde
of bikes rolling
to the traffic light.

The girls ooh & aah.

Harley choppers,
hard-tails with extended
front ends, stretch
out to grab the asphalt.
The motors growl with idle power.

The riders are hard-core,
statuesque, imposing figures,
dressed in tee shirts, dungarees,

engineer boots,
and black leather vests,
flying club colors
on outlaw rockers.

The lead sits stone-faced,
a grizzly bear in sunglasses,
rebellious, independent,
something wicked,
something
American.

Dark & dirty,
cleaned & chromed,
pan & shovel heads
wait
to dig the road.

At the green light,
throttles open, clutches
pop, engines roar,
fury released.

The girls mob the curb
to watch them ride away.

They race down the road,
rumbling & howling,
until echoes wane & fade
like the passing
of a summer storm.

At fourteen, I know
what I want to be.