In the middle of this the course of our life, I stopped
& everybody got out of their car.
The crickets roared. Wind farm sliced up blue in chorus,
like syncopated swimmers, all muscle blade & grace.
Young biker soft-shouldered with his leathers off. No ass to speak of
& not much of a face. He whispered of the car on fire ahead,
all reverent, & said:
You can even see it, just up there.
I walk the broken line like I once walked into the bar,
right down the middle, toes out, & I flashed my brights
at all the girls & boys. Kids, I was gorgeous,
I mean drop dead & I knew it too;
it was all I knew, & not much else. But I was full of speed,
driven by longing for whatever felt like life, or fire,
or a ride out of town into nothing, nothing. & I thought, back then,
that people staring meant desire.