Riders of The Concrete Range

When I hear the horns like gunshots
from those badge-branded scooters,
see their flagpoles shudder
between tool-leather saddlebags,
I know fair warnin’s been given to them thar
pedestrian varmints to get out of the way,
comin’ through, places to go, yippee kiyay.
When they ride the concrete on rubber hooves
rounding up groceries or tethering at
the hitching rail of yonder coffee saloon,
I’m drawn to admire those electric desperadoes
whose legs, knees, or hips were drygulched
in the rocks of life’s random ambushes.
They’ve taken to galloping their battery-driven nags
much as you’d expect any old-time outlaw
would grab the reins of a getaway horse
and dodge a stretch in the hoosegow of immobility.