The Shadow Waters

The Biker down the Street

He waits until dark to fire it up -- suddenly,
like a big dog snarling awake at an intruder --
then sits at the end of his cement drive,
idling the engine and smoking a cigarette
down to its filter. He acts like an ex con. Lawn
withered, shades closed. Sometimes a woman
with bleached hair parks a rusted sedan out
front and rushes to his door, knocking urgently.
On the rare days when I spot him, shirtless
by his mailbox in the sun, me passing the row
of houses on our street, he stands tall, giving me
his prison stare, showing the full-breasted tattoo
on his arm -- arrogant, aggressive, but silent.

At night is when he lets us all know
what he thinks of us and our children.
He rolls his black and chrome machine
out to the street's edge, its metal chest
rumbling like the barely controlled dog
he wants it to be, and when his shaking
rage finally roars against every window
of every home in our neighborhood
until even the far hills can hear him,
he unleashes it -- part Rottweiler,
part iron satellite -- gleaming with oil and
crank-case shine, rolling beneath the pulse
of streetlights, flashing and glittering,
blasting a wake of burnt metal air for us
and our sleeping children to breathe,
until his one fire-red eye rises up the hill
and into the mute sky.

posted by the shadow waters @ 9:08 PM