Bikers

From the back seat of our car she follows
motorcyclists with her eyes, mouthing words
of admiration, or looking down her nose at those
deemed too old and those who have grown
too gross. She tries to capture on her phone
their violent roar and velocity
in which she hears music and poetry.
A posse of bikes like a flock of birds
arrowing a path to anywhere else;
she’ll get no closer to black leather boys,
their fleeting and masked, inscrutable selves
promising danger beyond her belief.
She will never find what lies underneath
the gleaming jackets and the moon-shaped heads;
they are creatures to be wondered at,
stared upon from behind a glass.