Black Leather

by Ed Robinson

She comes up quickly,
With little warning,
Her hands and body
Wrapped in purist black.
She appears suddenly,
As always, hunting.
Her prey is rarely warned;
She never fails to score.

Every man must see her;
She is always an outcast.

Death rides a motorcycle.

Return to The Quiet Muse

All works on this page or linked directly from The Quiet Muse are © Ed Robinson. Any use or reproduction, except in excerpt or review, without written permission from the author will result in prosecution.