Riding in Formation

by The Wild Voice

Original EveryPoem Studio house-voice poem.

Eight tail-lights mark the dark, each one keeping the next in sight. No speeches at sixty miles an hour. A lifted hand says gravel. A boot points out the branch. At the fuel stop we become voices again, laughing over paper cups. On the road, care is quieter: a distance held, a warning passed backward.
55 words · 10 lines · Free Verse
motorcyclefriendshipsafetyimageryunderstatementfree-verse

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