Poem Number 331

Long Beach Grand Prix

hornets whine angry
the asphalt sky
punish our ears sweetly
and we endure
enthralled
hearts beating RPM’s
red-lined shifting down
hard-braking into turn one
spitting like screaming bullets
around the fountain
the sun shining coolly
as we smell the methanol
and the sea
a swirling vortex mixture for lustful noses
sniffing hungry for danger
safe in high seats
we almost forget the six dollar beers
three dollar Cokes
and ten dollar sandwiches
reveling in the squeal of rubber
the compressed popping of exhaust
and the smoke of tires burning
as they ignite the morning
and flame well into
the afternoon.