Teenagers lived in fear

of Sargent Benson,

the state trooper

who lived right across

U.S. 27 from our road.

 

They shared warnings

and news and speculations

 

Benson pulled over

LT and the Boys 

for drag racing

at the Lick.

 

Don’t drive past

his house in that old

Mercury. He’ll write

you a ticket for cruising 

in a motor boat.

 

Benson has eyes

in the back of his head.

 

So, this morning as I stroll

through our quiet neighborhood 

with my beagle, enjoying

music of mourning doves

and woodpeckers,

dreaming about poems

I might write today,

the sudden roar of a muffler-

less engine takes me back

 

to that world where a blue

light flashes behind every

jacked up ’57 Chevy

metaphor–slowing the go,

pumping the pause.