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It wasn't NASCAR
He was carrying problems
the other guy a five-gallon white bucket
filled with his story
Roaches ran across the old padded bar
while they sat and drank tap bottom beer
hard stuff was self-serve in the bathroom
A pint of whitewolf weighted one side
of the oversized pocket of his imitation levi
jacket with the phony leather collar
valium and codeine stuffed a change pocket
Out back sat his flat black sixty-six ranchero
painted with a two inch brush
a rustoleum cover-up and fixed fence
at the old village drive-in
that he drove through one night
where he used to park with the gang
and sothern comfort sue
He too had stories
an open book
with one hard ass cover
but only as strong as the binding
He picked up an attitude
his friend the round suitcase
before heading
across town
Merging up the ramp to the highway
he remembers saying, "This damn thing
has a 289 and a four barrel, and moves out"
Crawling in front was a Caterpillar
not a fuzz in site nothing but a bucket
that he filled with another story to tell
eighty-mile an hour fragmentized hardware
his software left bloodstains on the
rear window with a hood half way up
steaming and still running the dog
till it died at the destination
The finish line curb
no checkered flag
no trophy's
it was nasty
It wasn't NASCAR
ã 2000 Kenny G Brown
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