Ninety and Forty

Punch-drunk from bourbon
And beer, he stumbled
Through the dim, smoky
Bar toward the door.

The night air embraced him.

Gravel crunch'd beneath
His feet as he cross'd
The lot to meet his
Waiting Ducati.
He mounted the bike
Quite unsteadily.

No one had taken his keys.

Down the country road he
Roar'd at ninety. Trees
Flew by on either
Side. Reflectors in
Between bright yellow
Lines glinted orange
In his headlights. They
Were hypnotizing
Him, causing sleep to
Tug at his eyelids.
Inebriation
Was taking its hold.

Yet he kept driving.

The road was curving
Up ahead. It was
Coming at him fast
And furious. He
Began to take it,
Not caring to slow.

It was such a sharp bend.

On the other side
Of that same curve, a
Ford F-250
Was coming head-on.

It was going forty.

Before the turn was
Halfway taken, the
Ducati driver
Was overtaken
By drunkenness and
The lure of sleep. Soon,
Consciousness lost him.
The bike began to
Tilt with its master
Toward the bend's two
Center yellow lines.

The Ford could not stop.

It hit the driver
And the Ducati.
The motorcycle
Was sent skittering.
The drunk was push'd
To the Ford's grate then
Was crush'd by its wheels.
Suddenly, he was
No more than road kill.