The Race

The excessive speed and engine noise
always gets the adrenaline pumping
through Dale’s veins, setting him
on edge, nerves all tingly.
Making lightening quick calculations,
darting through the heavy traffic,
riding mere inches from the bumper
ahead, moving relentlessly towards
the head of the pack, shrewdly changing
lanes, skillfully maneuvering through
the tiniest of openings, accelerating quickly,
braking abruptly, he weaves his
engineering marvel adroitly past
slower car after slower car, leaving
them in his exhaust, all the while
making spectators gasp at his unexcelled
audacity. Mile after mile he races,
until time for his pit-stop. Now he smoothly
decelerates, all the while maneuvering
among the slower cars down the off-ramp,
always gaining precious seconds. Catching
the light green, he turns into the neighborhood,
roars down the three blocks, before turning
into his driveway, tires squealing.

Gathering all my bills and the wife’s catalogs and magazine
from my mailbox, startled, I now wave to Dale as he,
beaming, climbs out of his trusty, racing SUV.
He exclaims “Man, I made really great time today
driving home on the expressway!”. Our across-the-way
neighbor, who had followed Dale out of their parking lot at work,
now turns into her driveway. “Hey, Slowpoke, where you been?”
Dale hollers. She starts to go inside, shaking her head, but then
she shouts “When are you going to grow up and quit being a jerk!”
Dale winks at me. “I drive better than any woman you’ve ever seen”

Harry Edward Gilleland      02.25.02    printer friendly