Drive By Poetry

A man wrecks his car looking at a rainbow…still finds a pot of gold.
Not the kind that princes seek glistening in the Columbian sunshine,
but the kind that builds up in bus station corners, lines up for government cheese, piles up on the lower rungs of recovery.

This, after the insurance company said “No, rainbows are not an act of God”. [Noah, bleary-eyed, snickers to himself.]

He went from safe-driver bonus to hitchhiker to bicycle thief to bum-with-no-place-to-go to turnstile hopper to last guy in the last row in the last car on the last metro out of town.
He stole a horse outside of Davenport and cleared the broadside of Nebraska as 18-wheelers rumbled across the plain and buffalo had vacated the premises centuries ago. Just a man and his horse: more exposed but less endangered, wild and free, alive and alone, unaccounted for and unafraid.

Lord grant me the gold of self-determination, the pot of laughter and the realization that life is to be lived, plans of mice and men be damned. This I think to myself as I steer carefully down the road, one eye on the rainbow, one eye on the yellow line, composing bad poetry as I pull into the driveway, safely home again.

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