When I Craned My Neck

The side-view mirror turns to the sun demanding enlightenment. I have driven on that road. No one wanted to fix my rusted and stubby car. No one wanted to pump fuel into a car that would never grace the cover of a vintage car magazine. "You're not wine," they said. "You won't get better with age." But numbers are unlike tree rings and more like speedometers dependent on the accelerator and Red and me can still burn rubber. I ended up in jail twice. Let the birds out of the cage. Snakes out of franchised terrariums. I walk up the crane ladder, adjust the seat, slip on a hard hat, pull out the freshly stolen goods and change the world order. Turn the crushers into the crushed before sliding into a long, white police car.