The New Yorker Magazine Motorcycle Poem

Most of you probably don’t ever read The New Yorker magazine; either the print or on-line version. Neither do I – except for the cartoons and just a few of their poetry selections. Why do I mention this? I don’t know really – except New Yorker Magazine poems don’t ever seem to have a rhythm or consistent rhyme about them. They seem to be just a record of some detached, new age beatnik recording his thoughts about some hip activity like sailing around Maine looking at old lighthouses. So here is my attempt at writing a New Yorker style motorcycle poem. And since it is a New Yorker Magazine type poem – it is understood that you are far too unsophisticated for me to care about your opinion.

//////////

Dreary days near the Hudson river as street vendors peer down into their stoves.

The horns and honks of insecurity tap out of tune of sheer drudgery;

And yet he seeks to find that sublime state of two-wheeled transportation.

—–

Escaping from liberal talk shows on the radio – he dashes to a dealer’s corner flat,

where clean new bikes with engines strong await some cool, aloof mind to demand hard speed;

and race the rider to a rocky shore up north [ or at least further away from New Jersey ].

In Maine let’s say where lighthouses pine for faux-caring riders.

—–

His tank is almost empty and the tolls have drained his stash-

But onward he goes towards the expected destination and conversations to save lighthouses.

Totally sublime and carbon neutral.

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