Fifteen

South of the bridge on Seventeenth
I found back of the willows one summer 
day a motorcycle with engine running 
as it lay on its side, ticking over 
slowly in the high grass. I was fifteen.
I admired all that pulsing gleam, the 
shiny flanks, the demure headlights 
fringed where it lay; I led it gently 
to the road, and stood with that 
companion, ready and friendly. I was fifteen.
We could find the end of a road; meet 
the sky on out Seventeenth. I thought about 
hills, and patting the handle got back a 
confident opinion.  On the bridge we indulged 
a forward feeling, a tremble. I was fifteen.
Thinking, back farther in the grass I found 
the owner, just coming to, where he had flipped 
over the rail. He had blood on his hand, was pale- 
I helped him walk to his machine. He ran his hand 
over it, called me good man, roared away.
I stood there, fifteen.

By William Stafford