Listening to this old Thin Lizzy song and this popped into my head.

Snuggled deep in the messenger bag Tug tries to ignore the wind noise he is so used to but cannot escape.  The leather flap on the bag flutters and sucks air in from the road but outside smells are smothered by  his own from the towel he’s burrowed under and the heavy odor of leather.  The world leans and he swings away from The Man as the bag leans off the inside of the turn.  Throttle opening the bike straightens and the bag and he fall back against the man’s hip.  There is a pat on the bag and words he cannot hear but knows, “S’all good, s’all good.”

Tug waits; waits and sleeps. Sleep is easy and the slowing,  downshifting and forward rock that says, “We’re going to stop soon” will wake him when things get interesting again.  He waits for the satisfaction of getting out of the bag.  Grease and wax are on the towel and the smell offends him a little, it is his towel but the man borrows it too much.   Long and slow the roar of passing truck drowns out all sound, diesel arguing with gasoline, 2 cylinders against 6, 103 cubic inches rumbling against 900.  The harsh oily smell of diesel faintly elbows in and Tug wiggles a little deeper into the familiar towel.

“S’all good, s’all good.”  A pat and a rub on the bag.  Habit.  Communication.  Partners. Tug wags his bobbed tail.  The man doesn’t feel it but knows it happens.  Partners.


Road Song


Seger and the poets make romance and lyric references

to the song of the road.


They lie big generous loving lies.


The road sings a song that is hard and screams in your ears,

a banshee drumming on delicate bits and pieces inside your head.

The road whistles, howls and roars

enough to make your ears bleed like

a lover’s scratch worth the pain.


The song can hurt, diminish and delete.


The real road song echoes in your head

at night or

in the quiet places

taunting, ringing, ever present

a noisy tattoo on your senses

never gone, always singing.


God, what a ugly wonderful sound.