FORTY-EIGHT DIVIDES INTO SIX EIGHT-YEAR-OLDS
When I was eight I always wanted to be the bad guy,
for I looked good in a black hat and fierce when spitting on the sidewalk.
I'd bushwhack the Lone Ranger a dozen times a day
and lead Tonto on a scalp-taking warpath.
I'd rescue my partner, Jesse James from the posse,
and stare down Billy the Kid over who is big enough for this town.
And when I'd look up to the sky, I'd become Emperor Ming the merciless
and blast Flash Gordon out of the universe.
Now six times that age I still have dark imaginings.
I wait at the corner of Ocean Avenue at 3 a.m.,
paralyzed before a red light, paralyzed before a lifetime of red lights.
Four a.m. on an empty street,
except for my car which points towards some impish OZ.
My foot hovers then taps the pedal and my car revs and roars
so I can sally forth on my black horse wearing my bad-guy Stetson
or pilot merciless Ming's death rocket to wreak havoc on the cosmos.
If only the light would turn green already.