The Little B*****d
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I wish I'd seen him in Fairmount
with a Stetson hat, blue jeans, and boots;
or with his collar turned up on a rainy day,
before he crashed through
the intersection
of folklore and fame.
Before his sleek silver Spyder
caught death in its web,
and a thousand pounds of metal
disfigured his boyish smile.
I'll bet those white lines on the road
resembled the seconds counting down:
until the ferocious thunderclap
of eternity.
He roared through life faster than
a silver Triumph motorcycle
through the streets of Indiana.
The Spyder is gone,
his high school is gone,
he's gone.
Death replaced his lines,
and that wasn't part of the script.