Back in the 1980s this poem took second
prize (good for $300) in what was billed as the first annual Detroit
News Poetry Contest. After the winning poems were published, the News
received and printed hate mail from irate readers for weeks. It turned
out to be their first and last poetry contest. The overwhelming majority
of complaints were about the following poem. Clearly, Detroiters were
not ready for my take on biker girls.
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Biker Girls
I like biker girls. Like how dependable
and worn they look, like high-mileage tires.
The skinny ones with stick legs
and boyish hips sit so squat
and petite along the freeway, moving
just a bit less than their jeans let them,
smoking or just looking pissed-off
while their man kicks at his bike:
a greased forelock flicking in his face,
waving to the traffic like a hanky tied to an antenna.
Once in New Jersey, I saw a biker
walking toward an exit, leaving his skinny girl
and broken bike along the freeway behind him.
As I passed, she leaned against the bike
and nudged it from its stand. It dropped
like a dead cow. I sped by wondering
how long she sat there with that downed bike
waiting to catch hell.
© 1983 J. Asquini
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The Fortissimo Sisters
One Good Friday they drifted
through the Italian market
like two ripe and jazzy versions
of the same Mediterranean song.
Both tall, but the older one a bit
rounder with an easy, toothy smile.
The younger one following:
a refined reply. Noble, hatchet noses.
Full lips. And long, trailing hair.
Clearly capable. Clearly the perfect age.
One carried a loaf of coarse bread. The other
a jug of Fortissimo wine. So-and-so
had told her how good it was.
She couldn’t wait. Yikes. I stood
behind them in line. Good bread
and wine – looks like you two have it all.
Almost. Their smiles suggested. Now,
all we need is a good looking man
to share it. I knew they would drink
well down into that gallon
before I would qualify, and told them so.
I guess I could have written my number
on a suitably low point of the bottle, gone home
and waited. Instead, I settled for the surprise
grace of their smiles in the checkout line
that charged afternoon, the gift of this poem.
March, 2005
© J. Asquini
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