St. Ike of the Illuminated Highways

The street in front of my house woke up. It put on its slacks and walked out onto the
interstate to join Ike who was throwing down asphalt like a West Point trained
abstract expressionist falling in love just inches off the ground at 65 mph.
Eisenhower afternoons. Under the all-observing sky. With the road reaching out
to stores. The stores becoming shopping strips and strips turning into strip malls and malls into super malls; men into supermen with superwomen in chrome fired rocket ships solid like Ike himself maybe raising a glass with the Rat Pack maybe going to separate beds with Dick and Laura Petrie or laughing like the studio audience at the Price is Right and expanding with joy as we teach the world our song in a high-octane chorus line along a wobbly equator in the slow after-glow of Hiroshima with the sun setting in earnest behind the final cities of the west.

No comments:

Post a Comment