David Petreman
guys on beautiful
Harleys, midnight blue,
and black, chrome eternally
polished, reflecting the roundness
of dropped bellies
and trimmed white beards.
They average 62 years and 78
miles an hour, and are flourishing,
doing what they’ve always done,
the only ones to win the gas wars,
ink from tattoos before it was a fad
fading into thick arms still boldly
grabbing onto life,
riding into the sunset
the rest of us have given up
chasing.
For more of David’s poetry, Google Candlelight in Quintero (Dos Madres Press).
