A golden eagle landing on a midnight Trans Am.
Its big-blocked, American, eight-cylinder thunder
and lead-lined cloud of exhaust fumes mixed
with burning tire tread. That smuggler’s smile fueled
by a bootlegger’s truth: there’s public good detouring
pedantic rules. Kojak with a Kodak, choke and puke,
I got my 10 in the wind, your ass is grass and I’m gonna mow it.
How vengeance pursued beyond reason’s jurisdiction
cuffs you to failure and ridicule. Ahead, missing bridges
only a desperado’s bravado can cross, roadblocks
evaded through the sanctuary of strangers. A wedding
in search of a bride. That you too can hitchhike from
unsatisfied’s altar when the Bandit arrives in tight jeans
with a ten-gallon lid he only removes for the one thing
he looks for in every pretty woman. And you’ll be free
if you can lose yourself in relentless movement, if you
can see carnations in the carnage of police cruisers
littering the future he cultivates in fame’s name.