I'd like to read "Fifteen."
"South of the Bridge on Seventeenth, I
found back of the willows one summer
day a motorcycle with engine running as it lay on its side,
ticking over slowly in the high grass.
I was fifteen.
I admired all that pulsing gleam, the shiny flanks,
the demure headlights fringed where it lay.
I led it gently to the road and stood with that companion,
ready and friendly.
I was fifteen.
We could find the end of a road, meet the sky
on out Seventeenth.
I thought about hills, and patting the handle
got back a confident opinion.
On the bridge we indulged a forward feeling, a tremble.
I was fifteen.
Thinking, back farther in the grass,
I found the owner, just coming to where
he'd flipped over the rail.
He had blood on his hand, was pale.
I helped him to his machine.
He ran his hand over it, called me a good man, roared away.
I stood there, fifteen.