I Could Forgive Him

“When the night talks to you, you gotta listen…
Look at that moon. Listen to that desert.”
          ~Robert Boris, Electra Glide in Blue

I was not made for abuse,
no, I was meant for a gentler hand
on my throttle, and a boot with
more finesse on my shifter.

But when I got to know him,
those sorrowful destinations
I took him to, those crazy friends
and troubled women he hung with,

I could forgive him. He needed
something to take his anger out on,
so it might as well have been me.
Truth be told, I got to enjoy it, like

that night he and Tony closed down
Mr Henry’s. The headful of vodka
gave him daring, dragging my
footpegs through the hairpin turns

of Beach Drive. Or when he held my
engine at redline, down the long hill
to the Wilson Bridge, his warm
belly laying flat on my tank–

I couldn’t help but give him all I had.
How proud we both were, when my
spedo needle froze at one hundred
and ten–I never knew I could go

so fast. But that night he met Ilene
I was so sure he was going to get
laid, until he blew the turn and
dumped her in the weeds. She

seemed like a nice girl, a good head
on her shoulders, who might have
done him some good. She wasn’t
hurt, but my forks got bent. He

patched me up, damn it all, with second
hand parts that didn’t match. Like
Ilene, it was too much for me to bear;
not long after, I threw a rod along

a lonely stretch of Route 66. Perhaps
a better man, with a warm garage
and a lighter touch, who loved
me for my classic lines, would

have kept me going. But I’ve seen
both coasts, and the Gulf of Mexico,
blasted up dirt roads in the Rockies.
I’ve crossed blistering deserts, and

fired up at five below. Would I trade
all that for the nice garage, and
pleasant Sunday rides? Not on
your life! Just let me rust away.

published in Bourgeon
https://bourgeononline.com/2023/06/four-poems-by-alan-abrams/