Hurtled his roadster straight through the great books
of his country, never once stopped for gas or swerved
to avoid a rabbit. Tore along the spines of Faulkner past
Hemingway’s huffing bulls then slowed at last
to flick an affectionate yet manly wave Huck’s way,
hell of a kid, that rebel heart, refusal to stay caged
in a world ruled by Aunt Pollys, they formed
an unofficial congress. Sail on, boy. A lusty wind
beat in from the west, one stiff breeze linked
to another like a line of chorus girls in red heels.
His cracking fast car was a Triumph in the latest
series of Triumphs. He spurred throttled it
open burnt up the interstate, hightailed it.
Left Aunt Polly’s bloomers flapping
on the clothesline, sad flag of defeat.
He was no bean-shooter, no dope fiend,
no bindle-punk. Just a hep cat with healthy hungers.
A regular citizen with dreams of berries and bim.
