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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