Ghost Riders at Two Frogs Restaurant
by Robert Ferrier

Seven Harleys parked outside
front wheels aligned
in perfect S curve, the riders artists
or devotees of form.
We wanted to ask of their wheels
how they gleamed in the sun
why no one ever stole their helmets
blue and red orbs perched high
on seat backs like calling cards
announcing arrival. Yet inside they’d
turned to ghosts, more felt than heard
or seen, absorbed in enchilada
aromas or swallowed by some
secret room. We thought of asking
the waiter, yet instinct screamed
hold to menus meant for quotidian

Once outside we shot their steeds,
stole their souls with Sonys,
framed proof they were ever there.

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