It was cold;
too cold to ride the Harley.
I persevered with
frozen hands
almost those of a corpse.
I don’t know who you are
or what you were running from
in your white Dodge Ram
taking the curve too fast
in the wrong lane.
I don’t know why cops were chasing you
on a Tuesday night in April.
All I know is I was cold.
I drove slow.
I was on the motorcycle;
paid attention to the road.
In a split second you careened
through the red-light intersection
pebbles flying from your tires
incandescent hi-beams
illuminating terror in my eyes.
My body leapt into action
before the serrated shard
of paralyzing indecision
could drive its way home.
In an instant
that stretched and stretched
a sticky hand from my childhood
slowly pulling off glass
I engaged both brakes smoothly
shifted down— fourth to first
buffeted from your slipstream wake
I could have reached out
touched your headlight.
I pulled to the shoulder
both feet firmly down
on a two-foot grooved
safe haven.
I exhaled
my breath, perchance,
one of my last
fogged my visor.
I took off my helmet.
It was cold.
I collected my thoughts
grateful for the respite from the wind
I headed home
to the warmth of my family and my bed
my life yet to live.