Stretch

odd

The trees creaked in the storm

Like old leather wining

And dining a full glass of

Champagne and steak

My life on it,

No doubt about it—

Not a stretch of the truth,

Not a tall lie,

Tall as the trees that creak

Outside the window,

Like old leather

And racing through the

Storm on the back of a motorcycle,

Screaming into the night,

Burning at both ends

A candle bright for dinnerlight:

A full glass of Champagne

And stake my life on it.