She’s no biker chick–too down-home,
though there’s a highway in her eyes
you’d give everything to drive,
and oh! she looks so good, so fine
in that nicked-up black leather jacket,
a story in every scratch and scrape;
the way her dirty blond curls
fall softly on its leather collar–oh, my!
That jacket hangs on her
like an old friend’s arm around her shoulders.
She’s owned that leather,
silver-buckled and studded,
since before she met her first husband;
the way she looks in black leather
is most likely what attracted him,
her second husband, too
Black leather, comfortable and soft as skin,
gives her comfort and a feeling of security,
helps her remember where she’s been.
She’s still young, but someday
she’ll pass on her leather jacket
and the stories that go with it,
a special gift to her daughter
when the road appears in her eyes
and she can wear black leather like her mother.
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