Lonnie’s Song

My ‘62 Impala station wagon accelerates
through Jersey pine barrens, gold metal flake on fire
in late July sun. My wet tee shirt sticks

to clear vinyl seat covers, fingers tap
in syncopation with the clack-clack
of expansion joints. Jumping Jack Flash thumps

On the car’s cracked speaker. This twenty-six mile stretch
of boredom is all single lane. As usual I’m stuck
behind a guy doing exactly the speed limit, his wife

lost in Life magazine, in the back their kids
fight their own private war. I have a front row seat
to this battle of the titans. The monotony ends

with Barnegat Bay’s pungent smell of decay.
Ring-Billed Gulls compete for landing rights on
causeway lamp posts; small fishing boats are glued to

the smooth surface on both sides. Dead ahead
the blue blur of the Atlantic unfolds before me. I stick
my arm out of the window, a pale aileron sailing

up or down in the slip stream
with just the slightest move of my trim-tab hand.
One day I’ll cruise to the shore

in a candy-apple red Malibu Super Sport, chrome
wheels gleaming, eight-track stereo blaring.
But for now it’s one last chance

to hit the beach
before leaving for adventures
my recruiter said I’ll never find in Levittown.