in forty years of motorcycling
probably more
I must’ve listened to two hundred talkers
eager for a listener those years
again, probably more
I do not remember all two hundred stories
nor where each came from
but when I need a character
for a story or a poem
one of those floats up from my memory
tells me again in that you-don’t-care voice
the love he lost, the mooch she chased away
the job he can find nothing like today
or how some stranger passing by
taught him or her a key lesson for life
funny
they taught me no optimism
just this-was-the-world-you-missed-growing-up-in-your-fancy-pants
assuming, I suppose, that I was born in chaps
they taught me something like
the world has always been tough
ready to bury quitters
or trip a running horse
kinder to dogs and rats than humans
but never mean
for that you need a human
you needn’t listen to me, or them through me
like you, I’d rather believe the world is kind
or at least supports optimism, and humans do too
but you might at least listen to their warnings
it takes some of the surprise out of
the knife easing between your ribs
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