Seems spectral now, that bike, a silhouette in the charcoal shadows of granny’s lean-to shed,
far cry from tropes of freedom and revolt. Black paint
scraped and faded, unpolished chrome beneath
heaps of cobwebs, kickstand planted in cracked dirt, scars of mechanical neglect. Had to be
an 80s model, maybe early 90s, its manner of acquisition
taken to an autumn grave. Those were the days
when we searched Coke bottlecaps for sweepstakes codes, devoted our time to loblolly pines,
riding to Kmart, combing the railroad tracks for artifacts
ripe with local myth. Just like this: the owner
of that chopper once said he revved it up and jumped a train in the name of reckless youth.
Launched himself clear over the crossbars and red lights,
cresting St. Louis-bound boxcars glazed in rain
and bird shit as he ascended into moonless night with the engineer as lone witness, craning
his neck out the window. I was ten by then,
plenty familiar with the shards of shattered pride,
so I took him at his word. He told it again, recalling fresh details like a bald tire, lightning
streaks, a need for speed, and I knew to give credence
to this epic feat of physics, to celebrate the sensation
slicing through the humid haze steel souled and sweating, to vouch that when a locomotive
shrieked a dirge of 150 decibels, a good-hearted man
reached the vertex of his heavenward arc.
