This morning, a hearse refused to
let me in—no room in his damned lane,
or perhaps, his fare held a higher obligation—
a pressing engagement, no doubt.
God knows, the dead can be stiff tippers.
As the driver hauled (cold) ass past,
metallic spikes spun from the center
bore of each twenty-inch rim—a lofty
investment, surely the remnants of a medieval
flail or a morning star now sparing
death from life—either way,
a hell of a lot cheaper than a personalized
license plate: X F K W/ M E.