like the jazz band blast
i no mean to toot my own horn
but i had a whole heap uh air
in these lungs befo’ she
rotated wheelset thru my life
her lightning flash
of violet passing
saxxy lavender blown top tube
threw me skyward, Savoy Ballroom
east wall orchestral section
Ann Johnson flying shimmy
found me Frankie Manning
manhandling the curve
curse her ragtime grime
tickling
full length of my ivory stride
but it is I
who masters
the complete sheet music
of her Great American Song Book
mystical rhythmic vernacular
of rotating crankshaft
the rugged musculature
which compels your movement
i know this tempo
a beating heart should achieve
where man is thus merged
with machine becoming one
therefore I plug her tune
subsume my time
in lubrication of her linkage
parse the parts bin
for instrumental bands
which will make her dance
on asphalt with greater alacrity
for if I be a lucky man
she will let roll these good times
through at least
four more summers.

As an object in motion stays still until.