The crushed carton, blue cardboard,
Lies on the centerline of Saddle Hill Road
Like a discarded ticket to an evening of abandonment,
Reminding resentful morning drivers
Of last night’s prime event,
A party on wheels,
A dozen beers distributed on an as-needed basis
To the pilot and the shotgun co-pilot
And Pat Mac, the dispenser of the night’s provisions,
Sprawled across the back seat,
As they cruise in Pimo’s Altima,
Empty cans tossed at mailbox targets
Like carnival beanbags,
Points awarded for the ping of aluminum
Nailing stodgy suburban letterboxes
Mounted on stiff wooden posts,
Mailboxes that,
If Pat Mac had scored a full case,
Would be the victim of his swinging
Baseball bat at 45 mph,
Pat’s box-batting average lower
Than the waistline of his Carharrts.
Four beers a head is lightweight,
No shit.
But their arc is fueled not by the beer,
But but by the insistent growth above the upper lip
Like a crocus breaking spring earth,
It’s the driver’s license, photo noting
The owner’s absolute indifference,
It’s the electrical current thrumming in the belly,
An echo of the beat
Pounding from rear speakers,
Peaking in a tire-squeal
As an emptied carton tumbles from the rear window,
Settling onto the road, hugging the asphalt,
Flattened by Pima’s final fly-by,
The finishing stamp on the Saturday night passport.
(Chris DuBose)
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