O Mr. Accord-with-the-blue-metallic rims you
and I fly low
doing 80-something
on Route 90-something —
sometimes in tandem, sometimes on
either side of, say,
a punk bus — one of the big white ones that roar from city to city
ferrying students and restaurant workers at unsafe speeds
in questionable equipment.
O, your blue rims catch the sunlight as you
swoop from lane to lane, fancy-bright, strange to see
on a boring car in a shade my Grandfather would have called
Mafia Blue.
Rethorykal Questions 