Thursday, October 9, 2008


You are a small pebble
Lodged in a groove
Of a rear tire 
Of a Harley-Davidson

You are cozy there
But tightly embedded
On a concrete garage floor

You are disturbed
By the brief whine 
Of a starter

Then a loud
"potato, potato" rumble
Of the exhaust
It's just inches from you
And it sounds like
An avalanche 
Of your much bigger
Brothers and Sisters:  Boulders

Soon, you begin moving in a slow circle
That moves you like chair in a ferris wheel
Up, then down and around
Punctuated by a regular darkness
That marks the spot where tire meets floor
Right where you are lodged in tread

You find yourself being backed into the street
Out of the quiet sanctuary of a garage.
Then you hear the exhaust rise and fall
As someone prepares to release the clutch 
And launch the Harley into forward motion

Then, it happens!
The exhaust explodes in noise
You feel the force of several G's
As the motorcyle rapidly gains speed
And your Ferris Wheel spins faster
And faster

From your vantage point at the rear wheel
It seems like the world will end
At least for you
At any moment

The wheel is spinning so rapidly
The tire is warming and expanding
Which makes your perch in the tread
Loosen and seem all the more precarious

At any moment you may be thrown free
And land who knows where?
This is not a proper existence 
For a small pebble!

But then you realize
It could be worse.

You could be a boulder
That is wearing to a rock
That is wearing to a stone
That is wearing to a pebble
That is wearing to a grain of sand 

Or worse yet
You could be someone's 401K

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