Mild malaise, mixed malady: a
Rumbling by my Lady’s statue;
Muscle cars owned by middle aged
Men, men in midlife crisis, keep
Mufflers that rumble and fright my
Queen grottoed in the front shrubs, short
Sheared and cave shaped for Her Glory.
Noisy machines, especially
At night, cruise by and curse the door
Frame, it shakes; a stentorian
Pass of exhaust gas masks the true
Morass of men now half-empty.
Yet I might just buy one too and
To Holy Hour I’d drive it, like
Bikers for Christ, in high style:
Mid-fifties, eight stacked, the path straight!
Gary Edward Geraci
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