Riding shotgun in my neighbor’s GTO,
a classic even then; Mariner turquoise,
the color of a midnight sea;
360 horses lifting the grille towards the sun
like a plane from a runway,
rocketing down sleepy straightaways,
turning the blur of passing soybean rows
into flip-book animations; trying
to push the heat out of the open windows
with the funk of grease and musty leather;
the stock radio and its Golden Oldies
left to the Silent Age, substituted
by a boombox blasting punk rock
like a call to prayer across God’s Country,
brown dust spinning in our wake,
leaving the idle summer behind.
©2026, Dan Schell, Flex Your Head Books