cut my beard off - way.
left mustache mine,
trimmed like Hugh O’brien
as Wyatt Earp.
driving down the lane,
the city rescue truck
large as a wingless flying box car
pulls out in front of me
going 23 in a 35.
i exhaled slowly.
behind me, swoops to my bumper,
the milky white, lights on, Battle Star Galactica.
a sporty, bushy - bonde Klingon at the helm.
chewing either a wad of renegade rhino
or gum.
close as she was
i could hear her poppin’.
passing the golf course
the earthly remains of Euell Gibbons
in a large black late-model boat of a car
pulls out in front of everyone
going slow –w –w –l - y
obviously looking for flowers to eat.
thus i learned
why the marshal in the old west wanted everyone
to check their hardware,
instead of riding through town
packin’ loaded six-guns.
Monday, September 13, 2010
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2 comments:
I like the analogy between cars and loaded guns. There's a couple of blocks I drive almost every day to get my son from school, I call "the gauntlet" after a scene in the Clint Eastwood movie. I'm always watchful, assuming some idiot will pull out in front of me, a spot near a major intersection where several shopping centers merge, and people take crazy chances with their left turns, and traveling across six lanes.
This is damn fine poetry Jack. Top notch thanks. But then, I don't like the stuff.
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