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| Fiction. Sturgis, SD. (Stock photo) |
Grand entrance in leather on chrome,
you behind me, hair streaming like a banner,
the engine warm and quivering beneath us.
Shut down so quiet, aviators, bandanas.
Unlike us, friends gaped. What had happened?
Forgiveness had happened.
Poetry had happened. Justice had happened.
Unconditional love had happened.
The earth had cooled, the fires quenched.
A pure, sweet wind blew out of the west,
the Gulf Stream headed north,
glaciers stopped calving,
and the people did unto others
as they would have done unto themselves.
We hung our jackets on the handlebars
and toasted each other,
repeating like a mantra
the specialist's treacle—
Healthy seventy-five-year-olds
have another twenty years, or so.
Happiness had happened.
Fiction had happened.
