I always wanted to be a biker…

I always wanted to be a biker.
I wanted to explore the ultimate
sense of freedom these bikers
wax about, “Out here, it’s you, your
hog and the road. Nothing to clog your mind.”
I loved the myths:
Brando,
Easy Rider,
the Hell’s Angels in The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test,
Hunter Thompson’s near death experience with the gang,
the endless string of reruns where
biker gangs invade towns,
terrorize the straights,
corrupt the youth
and ride off with a middle
class sweet young thing
in the bitch seat of
the gang leader’s hog.

I always wanted to be a biker,
until last weekend. A nearby town
held a Charles Dickens holiday
weekend replete with carolers in
period clothes. Scrooge prowled and
glowered along the cobble sidewalks
(He told my wife and I to,
“Get the hell out of my way.”)

I always wanted to be a biker, until
we walked past a large clot of bikers
gathered in one of the parking lots. It was
then that I realized I no longer wanted
to be a biker. It was then that I
realized that real bikers have enough
problems on their hands. They have this wannabe
rabble of proctologists, circuit court judges,
insurance company executives and attorneys
donning their leathers and bandanas every
weekend, parading on the interstates, stopping
for lunch at little country cafes,
eating aspargus and tofu wraps, drinking
microbrewed beer and sparkling mineral water.

I always wanted to be a biker, until I realized
that real bikers have enough on their hands,
they do not need a cowardly poet type
like me trying to be something I am not.

I always wanted to be a biker, until I realized
I have already found a different way,
a less deadly way, my own way
of terrorizing the straights,
corrupting the youth and
careening into the sunset
with my sweet young thing
riding in the passenger seat
of our rusted, failing Isuzu Trooper.

My hog is poetry.
Bolt the doors and hide the children,
I am coming to your town.