Why all these people?
Why now, when the past has to go,
does traffic on the Hayward Split
creep? I have left Oakland,
put the white crosses on
the hilltop in the rearview,
and now? The sun. In a five
o' clock blaze its corona
bursts from behind a cloud. I
think I am going to burst, think
the car's gonna pop, and I pull
over by the smorgasborg off the freeway,
pop the hood, hoses gone wilynily.
I walk around, spot something in the backseat.
A book? Shirt? Whatever. It can
be returned, without remorse,
minus forgiveness, and I won't
give a shit if I could just
not burn my oversized hand in the
undersized engine bay but heat that tat
on the ringfinger, but what's
it gonna look like when highway patrol
pulls up -- when John Law adjusts
his belt cinch and gets on the bullhorn
and watches a guy peer into the engine bay,
grit his teeth, press finger to hot
engine block til skin starts to sizzle?
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