Motorcycle maintenance revisited.

There’s a soporific quality
to the sound of a wind
chime,
a rhyme if you please for
some time in the breeze.

hanging loose with the crew,
few can
but it’s a window to look through
a placebo to calm you
until the sirens wail
and then it’s remote control.

Forty seven sounds to a cannon
from a whispering breath to
the thunder where death is
the end,

We all wake up then or
we all wake to Zen and
some of us
sleep with the fishes.

© 2017, John Smallshaw.