Running the red on a right, screeching the corner, he cut me off.
A second later we would have collided.
Barely ahead he gunned his powerful engine.
Smoking mags marking his accomplishments in rubber signature
Flashy finish mirroring every reflection of the night in red.
Floating inches above the pavement, flaunting shiny expensive new glory.
No mere roadster, no mere mortal – a jet pilot soaring above the crowds.
Breaking the barriers, beyond the rules
Only to be stuck in the slow lane.
Friday night in Chicago has no place for speed.
Pulaski is no racetrack; his Indy was over.
He tried to weave left,
He tried to weave right,
Parked cars blocked his way.
Loud engine revving out fury in futile display,
Hundreds of horsepower halted,
Glory gone, stripped of the prize,
Overdressed and awkward, trapped on display in the traffic zoo,
Right on his tail, relishing revenge,
I watched, laughing.
His were no faster than my little wheels.
Mighty power meant no movement greater than mine.
All that speed, chrome, noise, and money were nothing.
He was stuck like the rest of us,
And I delighted in his frustration.
I laughed at him until I realized it was me.
I want speed, faster turning, quick results.
But haste has halted my horsepower.
Cutting corners ruins the race.
Displaying externals to dissatisfaction,
Revving my noise without notice,
Silent applause to laborious laps,
I am a seven speed Lamborghini stuck in the slow lane like everybody else.
Mocking others and laughing at myself
Going at the pace life commands.
Want more poetry? Check out these other works by MockingOwl Roost contributors and staff.
Paul H de Neui
Exploring global cultures, experiencing God in all of creation, producing up-cycled art, promoting organic food production in small urban spaces, vermicomposting, and alley shopping are all part of the joys of Paul’s life. He loves sharing an empty nest with his wife, but is glad to see the kids when they want to come visit. He has over 3,000 pet red wrigglers that never complain.