Her hair darted
and was slammed down
like a wrestler on the mat.
It danced and sprang back up
and floated like a wisp of smoke
above sizzling twigs.
Her shades
caught a glint of sun
and seemed to dissolve
in the rearview mirror.
I was mesmerized
and the chase was on
for miles and miles
on the twists of the Taconic,
a boxy, grey CRV
trailing a sleek Mercedes
its top down,
like a low-cut dress.
My interest peaked,
like a tomcat prowling.
but all I wanted
was to watch her hair
flailing like Medusa's,
uncontained,
scarfless, hatless,
oblivious to elements
and the unraveling
it would demand
when the ride was over.
"Now what is this all about?"
I asked myself.
"I believe I've transcended,"
Van Morrison responded
immediately,
repeatedly
on the stereo system
like a gnome
back from the mountaintop.
"I believe I've transcended,
I believe I've transcended,
I believe I've transcended time."
So I scribbled notes
on a manila folder
while rounding curves
across from Farnestock Park
and slowed as Mercedes slowed
and saw the cop's cruiser
facing us head on
just before I cut sharply
to stay on the road.
If I were to write
that I pulled my wheel too far,
and skidded into a tree,
I would have a story.
If I were to write
that Mercedes glided by a ticket,
but I did not,
I would have a story.
If I were to write
that she waved gaily
as she signaled her
exit at Hopewell Junction,
I would have a story.
But visions like this
have no denouement
because they
have no climax
and certainly
no curtain drops
because
they do,
indeed,
transcend time,
and I've never been one
to finish a story
anyway.