This Tizer sound rounds back to me
One full ’bout turn, this empty can,
A scoom to rim-ride riffy tarmac
Up camber berm, so rad to see
A seamless turn – exhaust… fell off.
All wind gone: still.
That litter’s bent, its gargled gone;
I sip again: that sharp cold twist;
Metal trouncing sunny road;
An arc eternal as internal
Rushes surge past mind and bone.
© Pat Mellow 2018