— Cederbaum

Motorcycle

The brass bell hangs
camouflaged, metal on metal.
As he turns on the two low wattage bulbs overhead
the chrome takes on a look of glazed luster,
the light dripping down from one cylinder to the next
until it disappears beneath the undercarriage.
There the bell rests, dormant.

Eagerly the side stand retracts,
the bike tilting upwards as the man throws one leg
over its body, grounding himself with his other.

Sound echoes through the maze of piping
as the bell awakens, its chimes like sanctus bells
chasing evil away, calling the faithful to prayer.

Riding is this man’s prayer, his release.
If the bike is his temple the bell is his protector.
The scripture of the rider is simple:
give a guardian bell to a rider you know, and love,
and it will keep them safe.

The man puts on his lime green earplugs,
distancing himself from the noise.
Not the noise of his bell, but another,
his gift of protection, tinkling somewhere far away.
Given, but perhaps no longer deserved.

Venomous insults, sudden rage,
magazines thrown across the room;
his body tenses reflexively.
Putting on his helmet the man turns
on the engine, encasing the garage
in a cacophonous cloud of wheezing
and grumbling.

The motorcycle surges out the garage,
and turning onto the street the sweet
melody of a bell sings out, all but imperceptible.

Eve Cederbaum