IF HER GREAT HEART IS YET BEATING

IF HER GREAT HEART IS YET BEATING
A spring day done,
Out of my pocket,
Precious jewel of many facets,
So many there are, out MacArthur Boulevard,
Over and beyond Cabin John.
Beat, pre-hippy,
Counter- bourgeois middle-diddle,
I disdained that then,
More still, now.

Off on a dirt lane shrouded in leafy vines,
Canopied in the bosom of great hardwoods,
Dappled in shadow-light,
The old farm house, farm long gone in an opening that could have been heaven,
Roger’s panhead Harley in the kitchen,
A gleaming vintage BSA Goldstar propped against a porch post,
Wicked ride,
Greatly coveted by my sort,
A revered bitch to kick off under my one-hundred-thirty pounds,
Kick back, a mule she could be, tardy on the compression stroke.
She, unbuttoned to the naval
Barefoot,
Up on the saddle,
The beezer roars to life under her barefoot kick.
On behind her out the lane,
Full throttle.
I knew then what love can be,
Wild and free.
Looking back in reverence and highest esteem,
Why, she must be eighty now,
If her great heart is yet beating.

Shawnee,
March 25, 2019