Testing, testing

Figured I'd stretch my legs a bit in preparation for a polished poetry post come Sunday.  Fresh off the top, just a little memory exercise--



Prospero's a Laughingstock


He's driving through the empty countryside
And we're sixteen again--

I'm swallowed up in Shakespeare and fantasy,
Dragged along in his wake,

Letting him take the wheel and steer us down,
Content to let him lead,

Unaware of the destruction fueled by open road,
Skirting along the edge with an open throttle--

Close call skids through patchy asphalt turns,
"Oh, depraved new--"

"Hey, Champ," (He calls me that, a condescending
Conviviality I happily swallow

As hapless sidekick, unaware of the tipped scales
He's always held down in his favor)

"You fuck her yet?  Or you still just playing
With your dick?"

And I laugh it off, even though I've never--
The engine strains in sixth gear,

Passing a bright green field, a single cow
Stationary, eating

And a white, frothy, flowing stream of shit coming
Out the other end,

"Garbage in, garbage out," I say.
He slams the shifter down,

The engine reaches a new, unfathomable pitch
And I'm pulled violently

To the side of the car as he slides
Through another turn.

"Let's get some pussy out on the lake this summer, Champ."
And I bought into his distorted reality,

Even though the next few years we sailed those waters
And returned to dock each time sunburned

And empty-handed.  But we're sixteen again,
And it's new to me--

His bravado, his shifting, the bloodlust burning
Gasoline and rubber,

His conquests and celebrated indiscretions
And my car rocks through another slide.