A poet cannot collect
too many learners’ permits:
library cards and Bicycle
jokers, leaves ironed into
wax paper sheaths.
So, too, there’s no such thing
in the vehicles beginners nose
from lot to street
as too many tenors
singing shotgun,
ankles cocked
over back-up brakes.
But the real secret
is this: we—the young
in hand-me-down
Tempos, the family man
whose Odyssey
sirens lure to the curb, me
in my Econoline, you in yours—
all of us poets pulled over
to the left, flash fakes
at the authorities,
cheek our only license.
Issue