The Motorcyclist

A man's face is splattered on I-35,

teeth ground into a paste

of flour and mashed cranberries.

He's left a trail of Château Pétrus

500 feet long

leading up to his cracked bucket of hair

pink grub worms, exposed, crawling and falling,

looking for a place to hide.

But instead they are spill on the pavement,

forced from  dark bowl of bone

into  light, scattering, blind, drying.

I stop and stare.

It is my turn now

I waited almost a full half hour in the queue

along the cement backbone.

Perhaps I should have taken the train.

But I like his stain,

which will always be in this lane.

Anyway,

the sun is shining on my face

and it’s a good day.