He’s riding alone among others Like others
Who are themselves only as Fancy dudded up dudes
On big muffler Japanese motorbikes.

Paused at a stoplight Stopped—
The dudded dude hovers, leans lightly over
And chats with the adjacent dud
Similarly studded and strutting on
His sputtering steel superbike structure.

In the intersecting lane The light changes from green To yellow, as stoplights are wont to do, then To that split-second when
All lights are red
And every gathered motorist waits patiently at the Stoppage of automotive peace.
The motorcycle man moves his feet From the ground Quickly turning the throttle Shifting, popping up a gear or two Too fast.
Such as these are not meant for our Earth.
“Look, the sky” Perhaps he thought

As he pointed his personal powered Pegasus
Toward Heaven
In a mechanized mass production
Plea for personality
Or hope
Or escape from that traffic and congestion
That seems to follow him everywhere.

Maybe he just belted out a chain of expletives
Subdued
By the censoring combustion of
Asian engines and engineering.

One wheel, smoking heavily, Bound him still
To our common human highway
Then he came back down A time or two
Beating a jarred and crushing rhythm On the broken pavement
His springs squelched Any relapse into flight
But did not save him
From falling.