Thursday, March 29, 2007

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Fifteen
South of the bridge on Seventeenth
I found back of the willows one summer
day a motorcycle with the engine running
as it lay on its side, ticking over
slowly in the high grass. I was fifteen.
I admired all that pulsing gleam, the
shiny flanks, the demure headlights
fringed where it lay; I led it gently
to the road and stood with that
companion, ready and friendly. I was fifteen.
We could find the end of a road, meet
the sky on out Seventeenth. I thought about
hills, and patting the handle got back a
confident opinion. On the bridge we indulged
a forward feeling, a tremble. I was fifteen.
Thinking, back further in the grass I found
the owner, just coming to, where he had flipped
over the rail. He had blood on his hand, was pale--
I helped him walk to his machine. He ran his hand
over it, called me a good man, roared away.
I stood there, fifteen. William Stafford

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