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Dear Mr. Biker

Fabrice Poussin

You did need to rev your engine against my eardrum,
the humming of my hybrid was like a soporific to my brain.

Mozart’s concerto was playing, too melodious
on my satellite radio and fancy speakers.

Upward of ninety Fahrenheit in your world
I inhaled air online refrigerated to sixty-eight.

You looked real cool with your Scottish cap
a roll of nicotine infused grass dangling from you dark lips.

You stared at me in my odorless world
and I think you laughed since you stink of gas.

Picture perfect of a living skeleton in a fiery horse to hell
your skin like a velum, colorful with images of nude ladies.

What a charmer you must be at the truck stop
when you mingle with those you envy at the wheel of their monstrous Macks.

I wonder whether that can of a cheap brew was still refreshing
when you disappeared in your shack full of kids screaming.

Were you rushing to the glass pipe again
while watching reruns of WWF tournaments?

I cannot imagine brighter tales than this
with your Popeye face and fleshless frame.

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