Vincent 500

Maggie with electric copper mane
brighter than fire, clad in black leather
animal skin stretched over animal
sat astride an old Vincent five hundred
its single piston thumping hard

holding the bull by the horns
a twist of the wrist, urged more power
her straightened back, took the shock
the machine belched blue and growled
spat grit then thundered up road

this could be fiction but not the memory
riding pillion through the Rivelin Valley
the inflated sun more orange than a Jaffa
female anatomy pushed hard into my groin
not that I was in control, I was hanging on

milk white skin, breasts as smooth as stone
raspberry nipples that burst to the taste
she handled lovers like she handled a bike
easing them into the bend, lower, lower
accelerating out, then a wheely along the straight

in awe, you surrender to your fate, knowing
if the road doesn't get you, her sex will
the addiction of life at speed, the shape of her clitoris
dissolves on your tongue with an intake of breath
overtaking and weaving through the flow of traffic

the summer, Silver Machine played on every juke box
we shared coffee and body fluids, her leathers
unzipped to her navel, the globes of her breasts
threatened to push free, a dare, an invitation
maybe a death wish, "It's a need." she said

the sodium street lights bent like sunflower heads
pollinating the dark suburban streets we cruised
my arms belted around her waist, my hands gloved
in her leathers, jealously guarding her sex
"It's a need." she said "A need for something there."