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
Monday
on the hunt for something
I thought
I knew
I wanted
when I was young.

I am the driver,
the careening dodger of teenage
clumps and
prismatic speed bumps.

Lord have mercy on us when they
get their permits.