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Tucked Against The Wind

Hunkered on the saddle of my Harley;
Tucked behind the shield to duck the wind
That’s howling ‘round my helmet like a banshee
To press my face in some contorted grin.

My pant legs loudly flap like twin machine guns;
My gauntlets drive my fists to pierce the air;
The tears are whipped from underneath my goggles;
I’d swear the blast intends to strip me bare!

I wish that I were screaming down some highway,
My sickle’s speed the cause of such a blow,
Instead of waiting somewhere in Wyoming
For the wind to stop so I can finally go!

Picture of Wes Stephenson

Wes Stephenson

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



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