by Karen Bingham Pape

Sweat beads
the bare breastbone
beneath the leather vest.
Studs glisten and glance
off hard chrome of his eyes,
silver pipes of the bike
he kicks with an angry roar.

He rides his anger
like a one night lover
taking it hard
to the end
of the road.
One day he won’t
come back--
the sun will ignite
the black asphalt of his rage
into the pyre he’s
courted all along.

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