a very good deal

my first car

was a wheeled

battleship,

a forest green

armament against nature,

ironic, I know,

but aptly named

the Plymouth Fury,

because it truly was

an upholstered

metallic condensate

of my furious

oath of allegiance

to Manifest Destiny, my

foot-to-the-floor

white knuckle

blink-and-you’ll-miss-it

race to be

somebody,

uphill 

in every direction,

devil take the daydreamers

when I finally, finally

traded in the beast

I could hear the dealers

in tight shoes

and neckties

snigger behind my back,

and one or two of them

sighed with pity—

it’s not every day

that a perfect

ten out of ten

sucker walks through

your door

and offers up a

precision machine,

fine tuned to the future,

in exchange for…

well, nothing

and yet

let this soft smile

be my testimonial

and proof of

customer satisfaction

in a very, very good deal—

because many miles later

this walking stick

I acquired that day,

which accelerated off the lot

in sync with the solstice

and has pointed faithfully

to the center of the earth

in all weather since then,

this walking stick

still parts the waters,

and reveals hidden trails

in every direction