She was beautiful.
He stripped her of her tarpaulin,
settled upon her.
The leather of her seat
grabbed him
by the seat of his pants.
He felt the friction of her handlebars,
the coarseness of her rust:
she sent him into overdrive.
She was a Harley -
'72 model,
bright red
like child lust
or the spanked arse
of a blonde call girl.
He started the ignition
and felt the engine rumble,
rattling his guts and
sending his doobies
are peculiar.
Then Giuseppe, the mechanic,
knocked and entered:
'Hey, Ralph.
How you doin'?
You lookin' quite-a-absorbed
a-there!'
'Hey, 'Seppe,' the man said.
'I'm just giving
Old Mabel a turn.'
'She lookin' good, man!
Hey, you mind if I-a-ride
her for a little bit?'
'Sure, bud: no problem,'
said Ralph.
As he watched him mount her,
warbling in his little
Italian voice,
he felt a tightness in his diaphragm;
his fists clenched:
the pistons inside him
gone mad,
the engine burning on high-octane fuel.
'Seppe reached for the ignition,
started,
stroked her handlebars,
caressed the metalwork,
tracing out slowly the rough rust.
Ralph rippled with tension,
broke out with sweat dancing
upon his forehead like little
pole-dancing vixens of the mind;
he saw breasts touched -
recoiled;
he saw fingers going in mouths,
tongues, flash of crotch,
motor oil leaking....
In an instant, he had struck 'Seppe
with a 9-pound wrench,
the blood leaking from his
cracked skull
like vino:
Mabel just sat there with her legs crossed
smoking a cigarette
and smiling.
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