The Motorcycle

Why do you mock me, motorcycle?

Every day I drive onto campus after an excruciating commute, persecuted by the lackluster demons known as retirees. I rejoice to see the minarets of campus, where I might find rest. With a relieved sigh, I steer into the Thomas Parking Garage.

“Now,” I think. “I will be able to pull into a space and sit for a moment before emerging into the ungodly Florida sun.”

I yearn for the respite which is forthcoming, the balm which will sooth the burn that is commuting. It would be bearable if it was merely monotonous, but it’s not: brake, gas, brake, gas

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