In the morning she beckons me.
dark as night, she calls my name
before the sun awakens the day.
her fingers span a thousand miles
through cities, countries, and
outside my apartment.
I throw on my jacket, tight-fitting gloves;
my helmet and boots make me complete.
I am here, I say, as I turn the key.

She calls to me like the cool night wind
between the still oak leaves.
calm and unaware, my soul ignites with desire.
through the gears my hands and feet
dance together a waltz without a song--
we are alone on this road.

The air rips through my jacket, over
my ears, nose, and mouth. I breathe
with her, the open road--
a glass lake untouched by the wind,
unscorched by the rising sun--
my tires grip her thighs, hold, and exhale.
her curves become mine
as we devour the morning.

And I, alone, ride on.

By: John Slattery 11/05

Note:

I happened upon your site and wanted to toss in my poem along with the rest. I own a 1985 Virago 700N. Her name is Lucy, and the poem is about, well, our relationship. hope it fits