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  • Like a mechanical bird which knows it flew the great sky highways in its revving birthright, the motorcycle sits through the dark hours, patient.

    A sleek leather bird with steel power, its sits, the bodyguard of the short street.

    Every night when we go out for our late dinner and our ritual taxi-stand kiss, the moto is there on our return. Anonymous as to the driver.

    Parked in the comfort of graffiti and elf-height doorways, it sits sleek, black, silver, reflective, reflecting. The night guard at the entrance, under the archway.

    Keeping an eye out, ready to jump and gnaw any bad intruders.

    El guardaespaldas de la noche, the boydguard of our terrestrial fifty feet.

    (Photo by Susan)
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