Daytona
Harleys roar like
greasy thunder;
A town full of
hungry eyes
Bright leather-clad lads
tilt the horizon and skew their vision
seeking elusive traction
or
frantic action
while engines shriek at their peak
and
everyone is seeking something
that once was
or
never was
or
will be
or
won't.
Gray beards
leer
from weird machines.
The road to hell is paved
'till you get there.
I'm a Poet . . .
I know it . . .
My feet show it.