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The Race Through Town

One evening at a stoplight
I waited for the green
He pulled up on his Triumph
And idled his machine.

We nodded toward each other,
So friendly and polite;
And eased out on the clutches
When came the proper light.

And, though we hadn’t planned it,
We started to compete
And tried to make our fenders lead
The other down the street.

The boulevard was busy,
The cars and trucks were thick;
We hunted for an open slot
And tried to make a pick.

We slithered through the traffic,
‘Tween fenders, doors, and grills;
We stayed, though, nearly even
With our serpentining skills.

When filled our rear-view mirrors
With a headlight, coming fast;
As mindless as a missile
Barely missing all it passed.

My British buddy gave a shrug,
He knew I felt the same,
It buzzed and beeped and blew on by
To end our spoiled game

And set our blood to boiling fast,
We thought we ought to shoot her;
That air-head girl from junior high
Out-ran us on her scooter!

Picture of Wes Stephenson

Wes Stephenson

Author, motorcyclist, poet, and adventurer. Let's journey together.



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