They look more like Willie Nelsons than Che Gueveras.
Yet their carefully unkempt beards and combed pony tails
are as authentic as the ear rings, head scarves, dark glasses, and boots.
Most have stripped off their leather jackets
to reveal arms gilt black and blue with tattoos.
But drinking double-shot skinny decaf mocha lattes?
When summer comes will they switch to Frappuccinos®,
lick the frosted foam from straws, and sigh, yuppily, in the sun?

A genuine Hell's Angel wouldn't even take off his helmet,
would order a cup of unground Guatemala, chew the beans
and spit the bitter leavings on the sidewalk—
all the time keeping one hand in the rear pocket of his mama's jeans,
while his huge hog, askant and sputtering on the same sidewalk,
threatens passersby like a ravenous beast.

Starbucks' Sunday Bikers align their bikes
like icons on display, facing outward from the curb.
We thrill at the chrome glistening brighter than scalpels,
at the scarlets, blues, greens, yellows, and purples
more radiant than the tiles on a Thai temple:
Machine as art and religion,
and we suspect the Bikers have stayed up all night cleaning
and polishing every part and pipe for our adoration.

Still, those shining Suzukis, Yamahas, Harleys
entice us to pleasures beyond those complacencies of the peignoir
and the yawning stretch that connects a Sunday morning with its
afternoon.
When the Bikers start their engines all roar and freedom—
a sound that softens men and hardens women—
then file up the avenue like a bright segmented dragon
breathing fire and defiance, we long to ride with them,
free from a Sunday of whatever responsibilities
got us no closer to God than we were last night,
into a paradise of metallic blue skies
with clouds the color of steamed cream atop a cappuccino.

From Apocalypse Clam (Finishing Line Press, 2006).
Used with the author's permission.