when you see the large
truck and trailer
half jack-knifed over
the edge of the freeway
in the evening rain
you notice the red letters
on the side:   LUCKY

as your wipers throb and
you think, I should have
stayed in and illustrated
the little drawings for
the next novel

then you feel shame for
such conservatism
hit the throttle and
begin weaving through and
past the other drivers

turning the radio up
to some sexpot singing
about how much she’d
like your love

you glide along
to the end of the

red light

sitting in the rain
with the others

many of the fellows
listening to the same
sexpot singing how
much she’d like
their love

you think about that
poor guy in the LUCKY
wonder if he’ll lose
his job

as the signal changes
and we move onto
the boulevard.

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