He used to drive a hog.
Remember? That bad ass
mother fucker would pull up
to my house: black leather
muscled tattoos all those
horses between his legs.
I still get wet between mine
thinking about Tragedy
back then: his low rumble
dark engine; who needs a
helmet when you’re running
Mescal ninety-six proof;
cheap blow and dirt weed;
taunting the law at a hundred
miles per hour. Electricity’s
been snuffed from night
since they sent him up
for two to five, me to dry out
on the coast.
             I came back
to town last week looking
for Tragedy and a little trouble
and saw him on Central in a
new navy Olds, car seat
in the back, waiting patiently
for the light. I revved my
engine to raise my pulse
and burned a little rubber
at the green. He never even
looked, but puttered west
into the sun. I raced toward
night and a new tattoo: mark
that poor boy’s passing.