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He glides the Hog to the sidewalk,
blips the throttle then kills the big twin cam
but not cleanly, the rig shakes twice with pre-ignition.
Shit! – He hates when that happens, it spoils an entrance.
A creak of leathers and he’s standing, – slowly
pulling off gloves, easing zips, gauging his performance
pleased by the watchers signals of concern, perhaps even fear?
The bike tics, seems to settle in a horny smell of hot oil and metal.
The brain bucket demands attention –
the spike on the top was his idea, from old militaria,
polished curved metal, a perfect copy of a German soldier’s helmet,
Citizens see themselves reflected , but mirrored small, which gives an edge.
Enough watching now, he sweeps the lid off
the sun strikes his shaven head and they see it ,
the eagle soars, with taloned snake, craftsman tattooed.
Yeah! Yeah! See it and shake – watch it and weep, you losers!
Confident now, he balances the helmet on the Hog’s tank
and turns to face them, to become the warrior, the final ritual.
A bandanna circles the skull, a solitary eagle feather is inserted,
hanging down to shoulder, for nonchalance. Only the shades needed now.
Elated, he steps forward whilst putting them on
misjudges the sidewalk height and falls flat on his face.
The Eagle has landed.
