NO MORE LAMBRETTA RIDES FOR ME

The gorgeous gal in the yellow Lambretta
has a Pilates instructor’s curvaceous behind
and the blue eyes of a Siamese cat that sees
in the dark like an upside-down rabid old bat.
She offers me a ride, and my pride won’t allow
me to decline, so I clung for dear life, terrified,
as she zipped in and out of overcrowded streets.
When we hit a pot hole on the East River Drive,
I screamed louder than I did when I retreated
from the Chinese at the Yalu River in 1950.
My fall shattered the steel plate in my head,
but I got it repaired with a titanium patch.