smug ride

I rode tonight through the streets
with a certain arrogance of movement
flinging itself from me
and off into the shaded arcs of night
and I came down the hill, stuck a hand out right
took a curve, one-armed, cruised into the straight
and then
coasting with no hands was smug inside
the liquid of familiarity:
it is the ease born of repetition.
This sentence actually went through my head
and I understood both time and dancing.

For C.