By William Stafford
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 20 over it, called me a good man, roared away.
I stood there, fifteen.
enjambment
metaphor
epistrophe
simile
personification
onomatopoeia
