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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