Like maniacs in little, sprung, death traps,
they drove without regard for yellow lines,
skinned past his bumper on the road that wraps
around disaster, seaside cliffs, and shrines,
so he drove wildly, too, threw down his maps,
and was not killed nor much humiliated
and soon was racing only victory laps.
And when the need for things abroad was sated,
in heavy clothes he drove his own big car.
On curves he slowed, and at the lights he
and he paid strict attention to the signs,
remarking at how wide the spaces are
but feeling how the ample fit confines,
unlike that place where they ignore the lines.
2000; originally printed in The New Formalist.
Reprinted by permission of the author.