I always ride my motorcycle when I know
It’s going to be a night of drinking.
A motorcycle leaves room for weaving
And the cops can’t pull you over
If you don’t cross the centerline.
It takes great planning to be a drinker
And be any good at it.
My Harley howls into the
Soaking New Orleans night
Rumbling like tribal drums
Up Dumaine and Dauphine
Claiborne and St. Claude
Where white people don’t belong
We don’t care
We don’t belong anywhere.
I've written one damn good story
Enough for anyone's life.
This bitch strapped to me
Will take me anywhere
Places I’ll never write about.
I ride faster
She tightens here fists around me
I didn’t think the tires would hold
The engine screams
I let go.
Published in Literary Hatchet Magazine.
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