Biker in the Park

 BIKER IN THE PARK

Not the kind of guy

            You'd like to meet in the park

                        On a Sunday afternoon.

Burly biker,

            Big arms covered in tattoos,

                        Backward red baseball cap,

            Scraggly blond goatee,

                        Levi vest over

                                    Rough clothes.

Drinking a canned Margarita.

But the Asian toddler

            Kept running back to him

                        No matter how many times

            His head scarfed mother caught him

Reaching for the shiny Margarita can.

"Must be 'cause I'm a new father," he said.

            "Congratulations," I said.

"Yeah, two days ago. Baby girl.

            She and her mama

                        Are here in the hospital."

            The hospital was adjacent.

"Wanna see her picture?"

            "Sure."

Pulled out his phone, scrolled down,

            Found the pix he took of

His new baby girl

            In her mama's arms.

                        Mama was black,

                                    Baby was brown.

"Beautiful baby," I said.

"I think so, but I'm biased."

            "All fathers are," I said.

                        "What kind of work you do?"

"Construction, roofing, this and that,

            Jack of all trades.

                        I do what I can."

His life story poured out.

            It wasn't the great story

                        His mama wanted for him.

Or his dad, who said he should stay in school.

            To hell with that.

                        He wanted fast money, now.

Started dealing coke at 18,

            Spent time in prison.

                        Hard to find a job after that.

His dad was right.

            About everything.

Fought in Vietnam.

            Came home.

                        Started reading Howard Zinn,

            Chomsky, Smedley Butler.

                        Heard of them?

            I nodded.

Dad wondered what he fought for.

So the biker in the park read his dad's books.

            Learned about

                        Trickle-down economics.

"It's piss on you economics," the biker said.

            "You got that right," I agreed.

"Yeah, we need more socialism, man."

            "You a socialist?" I asked.

The biker looked at me.

            "I want the roads fixed,

                        I want the trash picked up,

            I want a fire department,

                        I want better health care

                                    For my wife and baby.

            Is that socialism?"

"Some would say so," I said.

            "Then, what the hell?

                        Then maybe I am.

            All I know is,

                        The further right you go,

            The more wrong you are,

                        Unnerstand?"

I nodded. "I understand."

"Well, I gotta go."

            The biker finished his Margarita

                        And tossed the shiny can

            The Asian toddler wanted

                        In the trash.

"I got two little ladies waiting for me.

            Nice talkin' to ya."

The biker held out his hand and we shook.

            I noted the big tattoo

                        On his right forearm.

            "Dear Mama," it said.

He turned around his red baseball cap

            And adjusted it as he left.

                        "Free Palestine," it said.