The Motorcyclist

To fly upon the back of steelTo ride into the risk of death, always,Always, upon the edge of stormy days,And to forget my mother’s worried glances.One passenger, no luggage,A life in the balance,But free from the safety that would close me inAnd keep me from the baking sonAnd the chapping wind.I am alone in the world.The past crumbles into dust behind me,And no future promises anythingBut the endless road,And roaches In cheap hotelsThat line the highway of my dreams.