Old Black Twin

The sun shower stings a bit.

Hissing droplets speckle exhaust pipe chrome.

Big cold raindrops on skin cut the

heat from the aluminum engine block

as we chug down the lake road.

Your arms clasp tight around me.

Your laughter about the sudden drenching rain

competes in my ear with the whistling wind.

The tires a moment ago gripping

on the hot asphalt

now nearly hydroplane.

Drenched

– except where you hold me –

we coast back under the garage.

I’m about to apologize

for the unexpected storm

on our first ever motorcycle ride

when you say:

Maybe we shouldn’t sell it after all…

So the old black twin

I bought in college stays.