Motorcycle Man

Johnnie was in his fifties

Lived a dozen houses down

with his elderly mother

He rode a green Indian motorcycle

with a big windshield

up and down the street

figure eights and donuts

A drinker by trade

his habitat a tan tarpapered cottage

the front steps his watchtower

Big bag of bottles

and Drummer

his beagle/shepherd mix

kept him company

His mother made jam

from her berry bushes

and home churned butter

Toasted bread for us girls

in the neighborhood

We ate in her kitchen

watched her goldfish swim

in a fishbowl she tended

After his mother passed

he called out to us

twelve year olds

on our banana seat bikes

He’d sing old songs

A silly crooner

someone’s dad said

probably the one who

gave Johnnie his old Playboys

After a few 40 ouncers

the singing stopped

He’d call us

from the porch

in a slurring baritone

“got any hair on it yet”

“are you girls needing bras”

“come and give Drummer a hug”

Dee was our fearless leader

a year older than the rest

she took his newest dare

“Come on inside I’ll show you

something to surprise you “

We followed Dee inside

We didn’t want to be chicken

The once tidy kitchen

was now dirty messy

A couple goldfish

still swam in cloudy water

Johnnie grabbed a fish

and swallowed it

alive and whole

We ran crying out the door

He started singing again

Saying he liked fresh fish

We never told anyone

any of it

EVER

We avoided riding

past his place

if the motorcycle was there

Everyone knew Johnnie

thought him an odd duck

felt sorry for him

because after all he was

just the harmless drunk