Copyright Jonathan Marcus

Sometimes the thrill is simply knowing
 at ninety down the straightaway
  on the backroads through the wheatfields
 the engine’s hardly working
  you could count the r.p.m.’s, easy,
 if you weren’t so busy
  being free

Sometimes the power is in the showing
 when you and a stranger face the same red light
  at four A.M. on an empty Main Street
 as if the town is shuttered for two bad dudes
  to see who’s quicker
 the light turns green and you’re master
  of three hundred thundering stallions
 you rocket down the boulevard
  plunging three G’s deep in the seat

Sometimes the game is magically flowing
 and leaping in a high speed hopscotch
  through traffic, bouncing into spaces others can’t see
 you coast at speed with the crowd and then pounce
  with a double-clutch-downshift, floorboarding it
 and flying as if propelled by gravity-free aliens
  you vanish in a blur and re-appear three cars up the line

Sometimes the adventure is simply going
 running down the road for days on end
  in response to that ancient voice saying,
 “wander.” What a lovely commandment to obey
  let that muscular motor with her rumbling pipes lead you
 on your chariot’s throne, knowing it doesn’t matter
  where the compass needle tilts
 because in effortless fluid motion
  you’re already home

Sometimes it’s pure torque waves all surging and sowing
 the supreme well-being borne by barely tamed power...
  power so well wrought by the amazing marriage
 between perfect valves and camshafts honed to the micron
  and the wildly exploding gasoline
 the tempest weds the technician
  so we may savor this surge this flood and flexion
 and witness the greatest show on earth
  through an accelerating windshield
 
 

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