We hear them
before we see them.
A low motor murmur
that teases we throngs
of tourists quickly lining
the street, then tosses out
speculation when
the first motorcyclists burst
into view
in full-throttle splendour.
One after the other after the other,
flags flying, leather vests declaring
club names, conspicuous
tatoos, dead serious intent.
This is flashy, loud defiance.
One after the other after the other
for a full fifteen minutes.  This is
a show of force, of solidarity;
a circling of wagons, Harley-style.
A grand gesture that summons
something primitive in me.
I chant with the crowd: