Tits

Went on a bike run yesterday....wind in my hair and all that. Riding down Powell first thing in the morning is a wake-up I will try to describe. I consider biker poetry, and am sure there is some, but leather and words intertwined somehow seems antithetic. Wind blowing through my head is bliss. Takes all those fluttering words-- the ones who play at the windows of my mind, small flightless birds these days, tap tap tapping to be let out (or in) -- and turns them into something less important. Less urgent. Less insistent. And sometimes I fear words have left me for love.

But, in the final analysis, bikers are bikers and tits are tits. It is a stable universe, momentarily. We ended up at Hooters. Hooters girls on tiny little motorcycles, Hooters girls with hula hoops, Hooters girls with push up bras, the foam kind that let anyone look like they have great tits. Great tits used to be an advantage, but no more. With foam bras and implants, I am one of many. These little chicks had their tiny little breasts squeezed so high and tight (as though they weren't high enough... what do we want? Christ.) as to cut off circulation to their head and neck. And I won't walk headfirst into the assumption that nothing is going on above the neck to air out. I'm sure they're laughing all the way to the bank.

The ride was beautiful. Miles of winding road, fresh-cut hay, new construction, traffic, all the things that make a country road refreshing. We remained apart from the pack with brief exceptions at gathering places. It was a poker run. We picked up a card at each of 5 locations to make a poker hand, then followed complex directions in large print to the next site. My first card was an ace, but from then on it was downhill. Husband got two aces. We didn't stay long enough to see who won. We were just along for the ride, literally, and, of course, the hooters.