1955 Mercury


Stromberg heads, GlassPaks (aka Hollywood Mufflers)
the roar of thunder for the gods revving up
old man down the street shaking his fist
dogs cowering, tail between legs
birds flying away, cats scrambling under porches
car rumbles away
 
That ’55 Mercury was something else — took on
my friend’s ’58 Olds and another buddy’s
’60 Dodge, any car – Chevys, Fords, anything
that dared to go up against it – my first car,
my fastest car
my announcement
I was the coolest


​


Red Line Race

 
Someone brought red paint made
a line across the road and two cars
pulled up side-by-side their wheels
behind the line and a young girl
senior in high school stood between
them with someone’s white windbreaker
 
She looked like Natalie Wood in Rebel Without
A Cause wearing a skirt and light blue sweater,
so proud to be there to have been selected for this
honor, to wait for the light to turn green, to jump
up and down waving the jacket while the drivers
had one foot on the brakes and one on the gas
 
The roar would be deafening when the light
became green and the jacket cut the air with a
flapping sound and the spectators cheered as the
rubber tires screeched worse than train wheels
on railroad tracks
 
The rubber at the red starting line left an acrid smell
exhaust fumes translating into coughs as the cars
entered the dark night in front of them only a broken
white line between them while a half mile ahead more
spectators waited  at a white line painted across the road
 
As the cars barreled toward the finish line a boy with
another white jacket would wave it like a checkered flag
as the first car crossed the line, teenage spectators
screaming for their favorite, the winner’s friends still
yelling as the others became quiet
 
And the prize to the winner was the glory, bragging
rights and a night with the girl at the starting line