give me a Sunday highway
when moms and pops are
in some church praying
or busy in suburban backyard bbqs
when the wolves are cruising beach parking lots
or downtown streets
when favourite sons are posing
at tennis courts and highend malls
it’s then that I let the beast run free
no one on that road to stop me
no cherry top or black and white
no camouflaged radar trap
just the highway straight away
waiting for my restored Chevy ss 454
to embrace its shimmering blacktop skin
in a burning vulcanized rubber kiss
as the velocity in heat takes hold
my foot upon the accelerator
a hand upon the wheel
a hand upon the shifter
gears meshing smoothly
in their ecstatic burst of speed and freedom
the tell tale marks of my muscle machine’s love bite upon it,
the only evidence of their Sunday tryst.