By Bill Mohr

South of Pasadena in the far left lane, just before

heading up the hill alongside Chavez Ravine, a bump

lightly jerks the steering column: the driver’s side front wheel

tilts and rocks back down.

It doesn’t matter how old

or ruined a car I’m driving, this is the only moment

I wouldn’t trade: complete foreknowledge would tempt me only if

it were written in poetry too personal for anyone else to understand,

of which this could serve as an intimate example.



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