All roar and defiant vulnerability,
riding a motorcycle is a statement.
I'm tough, and wish that I could fly,
or I am in control of all of this or
My skull is my helmet.
The motorcyclist's clothes are armor,
accelerator, made to cut through air
cleanly, a beetle's shiny wings.
They are stared at by those inside
of metal vehicles, who cling to steering
wheels and turn knobs for music or heat,
grateful for the coverage, the climate control.