The Finger

We're on the highway, middle lane;
Some motorcycles pass.
The car in front slows down; my husband 
Presses on the gas

And eases left, right in the midst
Of Harleys fore and aft,
Not knowing that, in biker world, 
By accident, we'd gaffed.

We soon found out, though, for a hand
Shot up with finger thrust
Straight in the air - the middle one,
You've figured out, I trust.

We got the message, loud and clear,
And ceded them their lane
For choppers seem to rule the road;
That finger made it plain.