I was in a dark place.
Home alone yet on the run.
Nothing left and nowhere to go.

Windows open on a quiet night,
I could hear the sound of a muffled twin approaching.
The rider shut her off about a block away,
then the quiet ringing of chains on sprockets
coasting down the street,
into my drive.

Brakes hissing to a stop.

 

Boots knocked my wooden steps.
A brogue in my doorway announced
‘God Bless all here.’

Is this how it ends?
The running was over,
so I handed him a cuppa.
He poured out an inch then added some of his own.
For the sake of the craic, I asked if the exhaust was stock.
He shook his head,
“They don’t need to know if I coming or going laddie, that’s my business.
You’re a good man.
It’s fine to take what you want, but there’s a price.”
He told me what was expected of me.
And not to worry,
I’d find myself on the road.
It was safest for me.
“Follow your voice, you know the one.
Do what’s right versus what feels good.
They need your words boy.
Nothing’s free – there’s a price tag on everything.
Even your freedom.”

I gave him my word.
We locked eyes and shook on it.
“Thanks for the cuppa…be free.”
He coasted downhill, dropping the clutch in second gear.
Odd such a hard man rides a quiet machine.
And just like that, Death rolled back towards New York City.

(For the riders Jack & Duncan)

 

Michael Lawless [@electric_horseman], our ‘Poet of Packed Earth’, is the Flat Track Editor for TheVintagent.com, and has his own blog: Electric Horseman
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