poem by Dave Morrison

In my rearview the
glass company truck creeps
up on my ass, the driver
playing air-drums to some
rock song with lots of cymbal
crashes, and I begin to imagine
the driver getting so into the
drum solo that he stomps the
brake imagining it to be a
kick drum pedal, which sends
the truck into a figure skater
spin that is stopped by a
telephone pole.
The driver is wearing a seatbelt,
good man, so he’s fine, I don’t
want any harm to come to him,
I just want to see all that glass
shattered, barrels of sparkling
gems, everything as glittery as
a showgirl’s dress, dusted with
powdered chandelier, like a
galaxy spilled on the