The young stand baggy-clothed
like kaleidoscopic trees
melting into the street,
indifferent to the automobile,
the veering wind of a ton of steel,
daring it to sweep them off of their
firmly planted feet.
I am the hunter,
the burning powder in this shell
shot from my driveway
in the early morning hours of a
on the hunt for something
when I was young.
I am the driver,
the careening dodger of teenage
prismatic speed bumps.
Lord have mercy on us when they
get their permits.