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If you Don't Start It With Your Foot Is It Still

A Motorcycle

Or

Thoughts Of A Hot Summer's Night





Lying in bed on a summer night

In the Ohio River valley, trying to sleep

As beads of sweat gather and flow

From your chin and pool in the hallow

Of your neck is impossible.

The windless humid night seeps in

The open window and pulls the will to sleep

From your body.  The yellow moon floats

On the haze that clings to every building

Not wanting to escape.  Air Conditioning

Is for those whose cars are current

And motorcycles start with a key.

Far off in the depth of this awful night

You hear the distinctive low throat sound

Of the machine that was kick started

And for the briefest of moments

You feel its wind evaporate

The moisture from your skin.

You know the driver is aware

That sleep is hard to find.

As its rumblings fade you climb

Through the window to sit

On the small roof above the back porch.

Clad in BVDs you light the cigarette

You took from dad's unguarded pack.

You're now the cat on this hot roof

Thinking somewhere there must be a god

To chase this oppressive night away

Or perhaps the same god

Is punishing you for being poor

And not knowing it.