So the door of this car meditating at 80
Lurching like a rocket's first flames
It soon stiffens against the wind
Feet swing out
An absurdity so obvious
It can't be helped
Certainly not this man
Nor the abrupt memories of any number
Of stupidities ever committed in a life-- those mute,
Insufferable tyrants that put you here in the first place
Simply to drive, think things through.
You can almost thank him
When in no time at all the feet lower
Do the Mashed Potato in quickening flops
And slashes across the whirring highway
Enough torque there to catapult the body
Into a panorama of ancient trees and Van Gogh yellows
These otherwise serene hills of Steinbeck Country caught
By a certain off-off-and-away whirlybird man
Tricked
By his own risible devices once the corpse sobers the effect
In a roadside ditch
A coiling of limbs and prey
To the gawking faces lit up in the swiveling lights.
And the car
Don't ever forget the car veering casually eastward
Some eerie jetsam cast into the limned green expanse of alfalfa
Ghost-driving under the deep faceless tombs of hulking
Field jockeys
There to bid travelers a fine welcome to Salinas, 101 South