Triumph, rest

With tears streaming down his
face, he leaned a beefthick
hand on her shoulder, slightly
upsetting her balance and bending
her down to the curb almost, releasing a
squeal from the skeleton frame
in the process

she stared straight and idled
unsteadily with a leather sleeve
he dried his eyes
and spoke through a distracting
unsymmetrical gray beard
“budapest, florence, paris, berlin–”
he choked up a little here,
and looked longingly at his side
just then the bike choked out
stalling ungloriously
and reaching over
to kick the starter
i felt his grip on my
wrist–
“no, let her rest a spell”
(i still remember this day;
my jacket smelled like diesel fuel
and the sunset was purple)