Motorcycle Drive By

It was the first cold night of the year, after the summer. There was no moon, not one to be seen, anyway.
There were clouds, overcast, as those who know weather wish to call it.
We sat huddled in the backroom of the dank, abandoned warehouse, we were alone, together.
we were in love.
we were so young.
we had nothing.
Nothing but each other.
Our food was what could be begged, found, or stolen. Dine and dash was not something those "other
people did".
We hadn't bathed since we snuck into the "Y" a week ago.
I really don't know when we last brushed our hair or teeth.
But we loved, God we loved each other.
With total abandon, on the unfinished concrete of the warehouse floor, in the back alleys, in a real bed
when we could find it, we made our love real. We Loved.
We were going to be the next Sonny and Cher, The next Captain and Tenille, as soon as we could afford a
guitar.
We had love.
We would walk to The Kitchen for lunch, it was always good, we could talk to people who understood us.
Some had problems with alcohol, some with their mind, some just seemed to not have any luck. All of them,
with the exception of the man from Scotland, were nice and would talk to us.
Once, we went to The Kitchen and there was a man who actually had a motorcycle.
He actually had a possession, and a means of freedom.
He said he could not part with it, no matter how "destitute" (whatever that means) he became.
He said " I have finally gotten enough funding to fill the tank on this 'bike, would you like to come
along on a ride with me?"
She said: "of course!"
I slept alone in the warehouse that night.
I will never forget her.
I hope she was able to live what they call a normal life, raise a family, get a job, and love the man on the
motorcycle.
I still think about her, every day at the Soup Kitchen.