Had to hang up the lead foot
for a while, hopefully for good,
after a near crash the other week.
I was pushin the red line
vision smeared, thumbs angry,
voice sharp- wild like prairie wind.
So tonight it's just beer,
nothing that can cause combustion,
I've retired the horn,
and traded my brights
for a moon roof,
cause with her I like cruising-
and all I want is to enjoy the breeze,
drop her off safely, and remember
where I parked the beater.

You ever sat in a bar
on your second and last
beer,
just listening to music
through your headphones,
no girl with you
no game,
the only thing up your sleeve
is a tattoo of a purple
dancing bear?
Just wondering.
Have I?
Maybe.
Then again, I did leave with a poem.

The closest thing
to forcing creativity
is stumbling into a bar solo
and looking for a brawl-
it's never a good idea.
Instead you should play it safe
and just go to bed-
let it brew-
before you do something stupid,
before you get in over your head,
bark up the wrong tree.
Trust me,
you only feel unstoppable,
and a hot numb fist is no good
at a gun fight.
So forget it,
turn around- call it a night.
Otherwise you could lose
some precious blood,
your shoes,
or worse
your mind.

I used to ride this bike
on dirt roads
up and down
and up again.
Along the country's veins
in blessed Greencastle.
That bike with the basket-
the blue wonder
faster than the hills themselves.
I'd ride with chipped teeth
and skinned knees.
I would only stop
to help grasshoppers
off the road
or to throw mason jars
into the streams.
No watch,
no phone
no direction.
I never outgrew that marvel-
thank God for youth
and its sunny scars.