The Motorcyclist

In the rear view is a big slab rider in tiger prints on the open road. Off the pike and down the route, I see my breath she sees the inside of a brain bucket lid. Crispy corn snakes slither between those bubble gum wheels, I see my breath she parts the fog with hot drag pipes. Her gore-tex grips those tasseled ape hangers, in armor head to toe. The silence breaks into four-banger parade, I see my breath she lets off the binder and flogs up the dawn.