Mike The Employee

Mike The Employee shrugs to adjust his blue vest and reveals

how you can get

an off-road permit for an off-road vehicle,

as lip holds chew in place:

"Ne'er be caught on that", he says, cutting his eyes.

I roll my bike to check out as

fellow wag-ers wail "you done?"

(after all, it is 9:15 pee-emm),

but his eyes say no - for him, I offer a tidbit:

the one where I wrap my leg round a quad wheel, age 15.

It's good; but he just nods,

a skeptic bathed in florescence.



This way, I am a hostage, freed.

This way, I have something to share.

so, if storytelling's the cure, here's some more:

(1) mopeds meandering down city sidewalks

(2) six-fifty-cc scooters sending you,
with a wrist-flick,
ass over tea-kettle


And the effect of all this? Mike is

loose now, well-oiled, one-upping by revealing

a swiss-army knife designed for detonation

and stray nose hair,

regaling me with his pride, his tool, his truck.

He forces the bikeseat upward,

tightens the shocks and

chuckle. "It ain't much", I drawl,

"but I'll be drivin' this home"; he nods.



I imagine him in his truck, nodding to piston fire.

I imagine him wheel onto the highway.

I imagine grinning at the bullshit ATV story

as my knee still throbs,

pedaling into the blackness without a helmet

because -

as you can see -

I like danger.