Hoot's Triumph

In front of The News Shop,
glistening, green,
chrome, black leather,
throbbing at rest—Hoot's Triumph
ready for the road,
5:30, a summer morning,
cool and gray.
Hoot finished his coffee,
held one hand up,
revved the bike twice,
and took off.
He was heading for Denver,
bringing his wife home
after a separation. What,
1500 miles from Woodstock?
Earsplitting. He accelerated
flat out past the green, around
the corner at a 45 degree lean,
down the long hill, shifting
all the way.
We listened, mouths open;
he must have been going a hundred
at the bottom.
“There goes Hoot,” someone said,
finally.
That was in '66—Vietnam,
lies, waste,
the cultural partitioning,
the beginning of the decline
of the U.S.A. Worse now.
But, we can rebuild.
Hoot got his wife back. And,
as they say in the mountains,
“He did it right.”