Leaning back in the white vinyl of your rear-high
Mustang, forest green shining in as big a Saturday sun
as any June day could find,
perfect for opening her out down to the beach
when the big blue light comes a whirling up behind
and pulls you over. The trooper
fills your window. What’s the rush, kid?
Let’s see your license if you have one.
You fumble it out. Your fingers ache. He lumbers
back to his car, sits under the whirling light
and writes while traffic goes by like planes.
How much is there to write?
Here he comes.
He hands you the ticket and license.
Save your hotshot stuff for the amusement park.
Kid, you drive like that again
you’ll never drive again.
He swings out into traffic. You wait
and you wait longer.
Then you start her up,
pull out and stick in the right lane.
Your speedometer won’t stay steady.
You try to breathe all the way through yourself.
You would like to tell him
where he can go shine his leather.
You would like a button on your dash
that says WINGS.