born to be mild

you get invited
to a motorcycle
convention, but you
own no leather
pants, or vests.
you have no tattoos
or facial hair,
or shiny brain bucket
helmet.
you've never
been on a motorcycle.
you are scared
of burning your
legs on the exhaust
pipes.
you shake your
head when they
rumble by, revving
their engines
when at a stop
or cruising below
an underpass.
they seem so stoic
on their rides,
straddling
their engines,
the wind in the hair,
bugs in their teeth.
most of them are
stockbrokers, with
kids and dogs,
bleached blonde wives
who hang onto
the back
with dagger red
nails, chewing gum,
wearing expensive
leather jackets that
read live free
or die.