In a blinding blue blitz of strobes,
the officer pulled me to zero, down
from 47 in a 30 zone. But my record read
“squeaky clean,” he reported cheerfully
after a session of remote communication
in his cruiser. With a warning, I could go.

Since then the limits have been my law,
each oncoming car a cruiser to my eye.
I drive righteously by the book—aware
that the next transgression will pour
my batter over Hell’s glowing griddle:
no one gets away with serial offense.

A reformed character, I assure my love,
after my late laborious marriage stalled
on those unambiguous promises a child
can understand, and any martyr keep—
our present unwedded affair, one last
chance to be perfect in a simple thing.

Back to Contents