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POEM I need Freddie Mercury back for a stroll in white leather pants. I need Puck, real world arbiter of manliness, to give me chains for my pockets. Get me four 6-by-9 coaxial speakers (Radio Shack surface mount). Stick them in the back dash and swathe them in thick turf. I'm going to speak my mind something rigorous to them, harried by trying, harried to prove a point down some wood panel, a confusion worse than Babel. Freddie will agree with me since I love him; as for Puck, who knows? We'll drive my '73 Maverick down roads of towns with female names- Beverly, Palmyra, Lenape, Delran. We'll talk about stadiums and religion, give testimonies no matter how late it's getting, no matter what sidewalk we put our shoes to, messiah-Bic lighter-We Are The Champions, Little League fish candy after games. Let's get to the moment we define what habit really is, flip through 4th Avenue milkcrate vinyl, me, Freddie, and Puck, let's trail off with out-of-fashion music under our arms. Let's bury our manhoods in the Jersey Pines.