The Theft

18 wheelers rolled though the night,
a vauge rumble in the distance.

She didn't know the man whose heart beat with hers,
a stranger known only for the bike he rode.

A pulse that kept time and steady pace,
wearing away the walls and miles.

Wheels that will turn with the early dawn,
a blooming begun before the sun rise.

She didn't know the stranger in town,
used him for what her husband couldn't.

An old motel at the end of town,
just a little ways from the quaint old bar.

He'd rumbled in on a steed of iron,
she'd felt a fire light where it wasn't before.

He saw her need and needed no convincing,
a meal, a couple drinks, a darkened corner table.

A short trip on the Harley to a private room,
two adults in heat, fires becoming as one.

Both breaking vows and promises,
just this once and he need not know.

An itch as old as time she had known,
in the afterglow she felt those stirrings.

Her husband will think the child his,
years of trying and it finally has come to pass.

A bar, a biker, for just one night,
the deed is done, niether will know.

Yet the biker's hands, used to the caress of his ride,
had touched her in ways she'd never known.

And the years of moving as one with the bike,
had shown her more than her years of marriage.

His manner was quiet and direct, rugged and strong,
a strange attraction she had not expected.

And with his leaving into the new day,
a part of her left with him and her ache began again.

Her life would never be the same,
because of a chance took that turned out too great.

The seed she had thought to steal had taken root,
and the biker had stolen a piece of her heart.