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The Gray Pilgrim
Operating on instinct rather than intellect, I pull up to the gas pump
in need of coffee as much as my car needs fuel.
A casualty of a late night and an early morning, I linger in the misty
twilight of dreams and reality, as I saunter toward the entrance of
the twenty-four hour convenience store.
Parked on the side, I notice an old biker readying his motorcycle for
the day’s travel.
I recognize him immediately.
A hometown boy, born and bred on Long Island, matured in
Brooklyn and now he sleeps in New Jersey.
He is a sojourner who has crisscrossed the country countless times
chronicling and cataloging the people, places and things he’s
encountered from:
New York to San Francisco, Daytona to Sturgis,
Chicago to New Orleans, Boston to Los Angeles,
the big cities, the small towns and all the villages, hamlets and
whistle-stops found in-between.
To some he is an eccentric renegade filled with purposeless
wanderlust.
As for myself and others he is a maverick, a rebel, a hero who
celebrates his freedom.
He is all American and he is ageless.
Spry for his years, rough hewn with a lean wiry frame, his face taut
like rough weathered leather beneath a long gray beard, creased
with the lines of many miles and many years.
He’s dressed in a tan deerskin duster with fringes and faded blue
jeans.
On his head he wears a stars and stripes bandanna to keep his
bushy, silver white hair in place.
His bike is an expression of himself.
Dusty but not dirty from the road, the engine, a big V-Twin, sits
mounted on a mono-shock soft tail frame with a fat bob gas tank
and teardrop fenders, painted electric blue and highlighted with red
and white pin stripes.
A cool rigid look, fine tuned by a low slung saddle seat with a
passenger pad and an old worn rucksack tied to the small sissy bar.
The pull back handle bars and a wide glide front end that rolls on
chromed spoke wheels gives the impression of constant motion.
It has retro-classic style for a long easy ride, standing still;
it beckons for the open road.
It is a machine to epitomize the power and prestige of the American Dream.
He mounts the bike, starts it up and roars toward the open road.
A resounding thunder shatters the silence of the new morning.
The fringes of his jacket give the appearance of wings,
an eagle gliding on the wind.
Walt Whitman rides a Harley Davidson.
Submited by
Poesia :
- Se logue para poder enviar comentários
- 1647 leituras
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