Catch ‘Ya Next Time

by Kirk Haight

Under tarp in a barn
injured
rich farmer’s special-order toy now forgotten,
backslapping beers at the stockman’s bar
he takes my blue-collar cash
i tow-strap it into the sun

’70 Ranchero GT 429 Cobra
top-loader 4-speed
shaker hood
red of course, black vinyl top,
matching deck lid
makes it looked chopped
huge bolognies in back

500 horse Hot Rod Article in hand
i go forged
Isky Cam
more
fuel-air-spark

At my buddies shop i toil
summer sweat and oil
the new mill stuffed
first ignition a gun shot
choppy cam is rock-n-roll,
i rumble to the car wash
liquor store six-pack
easy elbow-out 8-mile
country-backroad-ride home

I stop at the city limits sign
dig out the seat belt
hometown cops roll up on me
i stash my 5-pack
open container
he tells me my tags are expired
i relate barn story
maiden voyage
he runs my name
three more police cruisers respond

I casually stand at the rear of the Ranchero
chatting with the older cops that know my dad
buffed rookie asked if he can search
i say no
he says too bad

A smiling young priest
police ride-along guest
looks at me alarmed
as rookie triumphantly holds
cold-ones aloft
i shrug
the search is bull-shit
me and the old cops know it
My, those are big tires
says pastor… nervous now
yeah, i need ‘em
Why would you need tires that huge?
traction padre.. that’s a new 429 Cobra in there
lucky for Barney
it’s not broke-in yet

indignant uniforms surround me
threaten
older town-cops
chuckle
they dump out my beer
i idle off
thirsty

Week later
cash paycheck at the stockman’s bar
shake hands, dice
Friday evening beers are the best
slowly head for the back road home
just beyond city limits
hidden cruiser goes red
slinging gravel to intercept

snarling i drop a gear
stab it
Cobra scoop inhales
howling hides erupt
i power-shift through the drift
from my tire smoke
patrol car emerges
i keep it to the wood
row the gears
mirror check has me grinnin’
vanishing point…
Dejected rookies
turn their cruiser around
Well, I guess it’s broke-in