Barely of age, he slides onto the leather seat
a pilot a rocket
flaming across the empty byroad,
North Territorial, and feels up to his gut
the degravitational thrust . . . wow!
How long will the Century burn, ash-hot
a racer an outlaw
till his seventy dollar fill-up at BP,
self-serve, premium grade, on VISA,
smokes into history, rises into smoggy heaven
And hes back in line at the ever-sucking pump
a user a loser
and somewhere at the end of manhood
a long, penitent walk awaits him,
on flint, on nails, in the footprints of Adam and Eve?
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