Day Thirteen: ‘Good Friday Biker Funeral’

April 16, 2017

Street badges flank the corners on 2nd
an hour from dusk. The choppers line the street
and their captains, barrel-chested black goatees,
fleet the sidewalks like a grunge armada.
Burly men in leather vests and flannel,
tattoos snaking up their wrists, congregate
on the corners with no cops, some in
different colored insignias. The Provenzano
parlor, flush with rivals, transubstantiates:
Jesse the Red Devil laid at the altar
and soldiers from all boroughs worshipping.
After an hour, sun gone, motors roar;
police clear paths, even some hugs. A Passion,
but the Red Devil will not rise again.

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