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There must have been 200 Harleys

in the parking lot of Quillian's Funeral Home.

Black boots proudly shining from blue denim

and silver studs.

They told me they buried him with his boots

on, a six-pack by his side, but no helmet.

"He won't need it where he's goin'."



The bandy-legged guy they called Hog

looked familiar. He walked over and

asked me if I'd ever been to a gang funeral.

"Never have before," I replied.

"He was a good ol' boy." He spoke slowly.

He asked me if I thought his friend was

going to heaven. "I just need to know."

His voice shook.

"I think he's already there," I said.

He looked down and walked away.



They were laughing and teary,

smoking, and drinking pepsi.

When the procession began, I pulled aside

and watched as they started their

motors, a loud, startling sound,

many different tones in harmony;

perhaps to the bereaved, a chant.



Two-by-two, in reverence, they drove

down 38th Avenue, led by police cars.

At each intersection, a law officer.

I followed as far as my route took me,

and left them.

My eyes moistened when I saw the

officer at the last intersection

reverently remove his hat, holding

it over his heart.



And even though John Connery wouldn’t

have remembered me, there was something

about the day that gave me peace.