Her helmet is gold, his is black,
and when she leans her body left

to speak into his ear at stoplights,
they look like side-by-side bowling balls.

That was, for a moment, me, sans braid,
risking my neck—and far more than that—

along with the ire of my father, had he known,
behind a young man revving his brother’s

borrowed bike. Four decades later, waiting
at a stoplight behind these two helmeted

lovers, I smile as they wait for the signal
that will propel them down this road,

bound for whatever kind of adventure awaits.