My Motorcycle

I had a motorcycle in my dream.
The thing was really fast and shiny.
You'd of maybe liked it.
But you weren't there to bother me
at all, which was good.
With a motorcycle you shouldn't
have to put up with any shit.

My pants were wrong for the ride.
Khaki shorts. That made me nervous.
Even in my dream I was worried.
I was trying so hard to enjoy myself
on that motorcycle. I went fast on it.
I went fast down this sun lit highway
because I thought I was supposed to.

And goddamnit, I don't have a motorcycle.
Not when I'm awake. So that's that.
Bills. I've got those. Thinning hair. Sure.
I plan on telling you about the dream.
Kind of look forward to the way you
won't really listen to me as we cruise
along in a safe car at a safe speed.

Out on the Town

Untethered guilty feelings keep me
walking up and down short blocks
of ugly, stained sidewalks. Make me
sick of myself, feel ugly. My own
rust red blood marks a spot where I
was beaten. I stop to look at it, notice
that it's fading. Mopery with intent to
creep. That's the charge for the ambling
town tour I'm taking tonight.