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.