Bourbon and the Biker Babe

By Dave Malone

You bike ride
as the Harleys ride.
Fast, dangerous, close.

No gears but high.
No throttle but full.
Rest is not a stop,
but death. We bike
slick across railroad tracks

tumbling

into the street,
both of us headfirst
like old-school slides
into second base. Wrapping our arms
around iron and railroad spike.

You are up first,
not a scratch,
your skin as smooth as Ozark rock
rivered down from centuries
of May rain and creekbed fury.

I’m slower. Nose scuffed, head light,
as if I’m in a tiny room close to you.
Towering over train track,
I’m up and your voice wakes
my ear to the drizzle,
low-rider traffic and cardinal reprise.

At home I clean my wounds
until the friendly poison sings.
I pour bourbon straight
searching for the keys
to the smallest room I might know.