PUNK POETRY: Dreamboat by Craig R. Kirchner

Going the wrong way 

on the Baltimore beltway, 

choking on carb-flooded gas, 

overheating over first date curfews

as we left Carlin’s Drive-In 

already an hour late.

 

A death trap, black ’60 Falcon, 

was not only my first car, 

but the first on the drug store corner 

which made him a celebrity, 

and yes, for sure, he –

lost half the time, on the make the other.

 

We’re straining brittle, bone-on-bone 

ball-joints and bald tires, while keeping 

right white buck and pedal to the floor, 

rubbernecking to spot that landmark, 

that yes-we-now-know-where-we-are, 

building or corner.

 

The little engine that could,

all the time switching channels, 

constantly on alert for the right hot tune 

or ‘Wild Thing’, the Beatles,

or anything by the Stones 

which was always right.

 

Your father home, cursing hippies,

belting shots of bourbon -

would have been loading his gun, 

and waiting in the driveway 

if he had seen the feature from our back seat

and those coming attractions in your hair.

--Craig R. Kirchner