Holiday
Act I
All the engines sputter, then roar,
reacting to the leather clad riders,
urging clouds of hot smoke
to identify them as keepers
of the Holiday.
Act II,
Their women appear, each helmetted head
trailing tendrils of inevitable blond hair,
the flags of their identity
binding them to riders,
their sign of submission on the road.
They deftly weave through wheels and noise
each to her own captain,
adding themselves to the parade, bare arms
fearlessly locked around the black jackets,
leaning hard into their men,
anxious to blast off in a frenzy of glamor
To the end of Main Street
Where Chicky’s dirt parking lot waits
tiredly in the hot Holiday sun
for the regulars to become the only
customers of the day.
Act III
Little boys watch the foggy trail disappear,
then imitate with soprano shouts
the wild confusion of the cycles,
til mothers round them up
each to their own captain, to relive
the excitement until nap time.
There is a wistful moment among the women,
a tiny twinge of envy as hands raise to shield
their eyes, so they can hold just one more glimpse
of youth, of freedom, of yesterday,
in the wildly lashing trails of blond hair.
“Those kids ‘re gonna kill themselves on those things,”
Mrs. Garret said softly, as if in a dream, watching them go.
“They’re the kind of trash that never amount to anything.”
At home, she dozed on her shaded porch,
dreaming of speed and noise and holding on
to someone young and strong.
