When I was a kid
I stared out the window
of my momma’s Plymouth coupe
as she cruised the highways of Long Island.
And what I saw
was an Indian in a war-bonnet
on a silver stallion
galloping alongside us
by the side of the highway,
leaping over fences and billboards
and fire-hydrants and lawns
and parked cars and cross-streets
and kids on bicycles
and street-crossing guards
and Sunoco gas-stations
and split-level houses
and even a tree or two,
slicker than silk,
till I got out at our house
and they jumped back in my head.