A list poem

How to ride a motorcycle

First, let a small nephew or neighbor,

preferably a boy around five or six,

sit in the seat.  Watch his face and know

your eyes will be that wide
when the ground moves beneath you.  

On the road, learn to scoot through others’ blindspots

To stay back from sand blown or gravel bounced

from semis on the freeway

To avoid Buicks and Oldsmobiles and school buses

Driven by old men with side sunglasses who stop without reason

Pay particular attention to the head turn

or subtle start of abrupt, unsignaled lane changes.

Don’t imagine front tires exploding

and the garage sale road rash and much much worse

or deer bounding from ditches.        

And certainly don’t remember your physician assistant neighbor’s

emergency room cautionary tales,

or the word ‘donor mobile’

or the arguments with your wife about helmets

or  the rear wheel spinning in spring sand, the rear end swerving just before you found yourself floating above the horizontal bike sliding across the double yellow line on that curve.

Focus on the engine’s steady thrum instead of the irregular ticking sound

on the sudden appearance of horizons from hilltops

on the coolness in dips or river bottoms

on the physics of friction holding tires to tar

(and on sand or water or oil that reduce friction).

Marvel at the easy lean that bends the bike into an arc,

at sunsets reflected in small square mirrors

at the two finger downward salute of grizzled leathered riders

at clutches of  Harleys outside bars named for numbered highways

in the looks from the land bound while you come nearabout to flying.