for Evan

They dragged his ’57 Chevy

up to the line.  One quarter

mile.  All he had to do

was pound that sucker

till it made white smoke.

The terror was stopping.

Coming off the line into

nothing.  Popping hope

out of the dashboard like

a broken radio and turning

the wheel into dark.    Now

risk ignition.  Bad writing.

Valves that can float.

Imagine it is a game.

A course laid out by boys.

As if nothing mattered.

The spark hits the mixture

just right.  Gas and air explode.