Driving Job

I want a hydraulic lift, spring action
For this car -- Boom baby!
And fly over those cars between
The traffic light and Locust Ave.
Nurturing a golden tan on my left forearm while
The towel slips my back hits
The ninety-six degree vinyl.
“Get me on the back roads” I grumble and Gumby,
Attached to my rearview mirror smiles
At the Buick Grandma behind us-
First gear, thank you God, working
To the Second, Third, Fourth gear
55 ac. With some quiet I can
Now hear the radio station on my
Portable car-home stereo in the passenger seat --
I want a cell phone for that
Music trivia question. The maps slide
Mastered to the side of the floor
As I turn the corner on the city skirts.
Next stop, grab the
Envelope, out the door and
Dog! Growls --how I hate
Home offices -- I grin, tilt my head,
“Take me to your leader,” the mutt
Does not respond. “Oh hello there,”
A voice jingles and “Manglor there
Won’t hurt you at all!” Hurray.
One, two, three, receipt, thank you, have a nice day,
And I’m back in action, the Diet Pepsi
Wedged next to the emergency break has
Heated with the car -- so I finish the can while
Shifting again and lighting
My cigarette -- This is the life:
Route 25 in the afternoon with its
Rich elms, luscious verdure,
Rising, falling hills and curves
Undulate over forgotten fields of
Corn husks drying in the heat --
I can’t feel it now,
But soar over the speed limit, sad to stop
Up a gravel drive where an old clock-maker
And his wife sit like New England,
Check in hand, then watch me leave.
Back on the road the land is mine
And I am my car, kicking tumbleweed
Behind on the beaten road. I herd
The packs of envelopes back to the office
Where the rush stops cold
In air-conditioned shade.
Settled and reprieved
I go home, and rate the day by U-turns.

C. Bronco