Wheels

For J.W., M.W.

The boys will be trying out the bar --
the cardtables and decks --
the chairs set round -- to warm them
for the evening -- because
the springtime's full of it -- the Biscayne's
exciting a few toward memory --
even that storm-laced scrap -- defining
the yard around for decades --
asking for open space -- for once more
on the truck routes. This morning
the geese -- like graces -- heads-high
in winter wheat -- and the cops
gradespeed -- knowing how the rigs
kick out and vanish after daylight --
leaving these cups behind -- these
condoms and diapers -- littering
the ridge they've claimed for seasons --
and how the boys still up / stiff from
another woolen night spent in the sleepers --
wash down the longest rides indoors --
letting the morning come -- arranging
daylight just for them -- on something
like 1956 -- two-toned in forest / mint
and fresh as the coming green -- because
his hands have seen to it -- the only thing
outside the roadhouse eats still lively --
until this gothic-scripted scooped Goat
pulls along beside it -- hidden for months
maybe -- and as wide-rubbered now
as any April urgency. So the spiced eggs
go down easy with the longnecks. So some
of the boys cut up -- and some -- with
fifty springs the evenings class and stratify --
are sure what surveillance means to them --
what the lavender and bone-bad luxury
inspire -- bone-bad for heavens' sake! --
as if the rich had just as many sutures
they could brag on -- whatever
the morning means to them -- and
the night ahead -- the card-playing
to follow -- the scripture -- according
to stone -- and the moonlight --
suited to the music -- the moon --
according to being young
and seeming keen.