The Mild Ones
The Harley glides toward us where we sit—
McDonald’s driveway. I don't want to hit
The guy, but I can't really tell if he
Is turning. Why no signal? Mystery.
He's close enough that I can see him well—
An “older” gentleman (not hard to tell:
His frame is bent and slender, and his face
Reveals his years.) Oh, it is no disgrace
To carry all the history that he does.
In fact, I somewhat sympathize because
I bear a half a dozen decades, too—
Okay, it's seven—more than just a few.
This Harley guy seems out of place upon
His fine machine. No Marlon Brando, he.
No wildness lingers near him. Now I see
He does desire to turn, and as he leans
Into the thing, I see his faded jeans,
His faded face, his jacket scuffed with age—
Perhaps a wipeout now and then? It's tough to gauge.
He gives us both a feeble look as he
Slides past—a wrinkled face, a white goatee.
And then he's in our mirror, then he’s gone,
We turn out in the road—and then drive on.
Oh, Time defeats us in our weary wars,
Transforming us into a mouse that roars.
Wrote her that she was terrific,
But I wrote in hieroglyphic.
She replied, “Be more specific.”
So I did—I’m so prolific.
Dumped me fast—oh, so horrific!
Told me I was soporific—
So I cruised the vast Pacific,
Not for reasons scientific,
Seeking life more beatific.
Shakespeare Couplet: Romeo and Juliet
To Friar Lawrence hies our Romeo.
He tells the Friar what he needs to know. (2.3)