Member Poem

I hope you never read this--
you’d die of embarrassment
to find yourself in a poem.
You, who’d rather stick rusty needles in your eyes
than watch ice-dancing, are no culture geek.
But I’m bound to record my fascination
of someone so reclusive yet content,
the memory of those reckless days
when we enjoyed not falling in love--
your Kawasaki in bits, grease on your hands,
your hooked nose, that time we had so much fun in bed
you rewound for the taxi to pick up the alien.
Sorry I couldn’t be your biker chick.
It’s in me but buried too deep.
Besides, part of me admires a man
who takes home his mother’s ashes
strapped to a luggage rack,
as if sharing one last joke,
and part of me thinks you should have called a taxi.