Ode to the Motorcycle Guy

Dude.

We watched you with avid interest,
in your dress shirt and khakis,
backward baseball cap and leather shoes.

Down the freeway you flew,
shirt bellowing in the wind,
eyes intent on the horizon,
late for work.

How else to explain it?
No coat, no change of clothes,
you mustn't have checked the weather radar,
too late to go back and get the car.

In our own warm, dry van,
we rooted for you as we all headed toward the low, black clouds.
"Maybe he'll make it. There's a small break in the clouds."
A slim window, down pour on either side.

But then, the tanker ahead of all of us stalled at the light.
No room to pass, the storm descends, 5 minutes is all you'd have needed;
We agree we've never seen raindrops this big.

Your face fixed in a grimace, shoulders above your ears,
you take the off ramp to your destination as a mall employee,
maybe at Sears.

Poor, drowned rat of a motorcycle guy.
It's going to be a long, long day for you at work.
Maybe they're having a shirt sale.



And finally, a correction:

I mistakenly reported that Charles was accepted into the #3 school in the nation for his program. I lied.

It's #1.

In your face, Harvard!