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The World Accoring To Ben Part 6 ..Still Beaming From His Newly Purchased Riviera Our Poet De-Superb

“Snug, Tapered, Creased”(Free Verse)

Back before we knew better, Back before science reared its smart but ugly head, Back before we made our truce with the air… Before we learned how to sweet-talk it, Romance it, insinuate ourselves between the molecules… We simply bashed our way through With sharp edges, shining metal and brute force. Work with the wind? You’re kidding, right? Screw that! Push it aside! Slice it to turbulent little bits! Overpower it! Clobber it! Show it who’s boss,

And celebrate the victory of might making right. We were Americans. We backstroked in cheap gasoline. We rapaciously huffed fully leaded exhaust. We devoured miles like grinders and fries. And we did it in style. We were road mobsters—even the least of us. You didn’t have to be a capo to have class. Our rides were flashy, but tasteful (For the most part, anyway). They made a statement. We drove sharply tailored suits. They were bold, yet subtle, Like that new young couple in the White House. They were snug in all the right places, Tapered in all the right places, Creased in all the right places. Always with a neat tie, A pressed pocket square and, Maybe, a boutonniere for the lapel. This was expected. Cost of admission. Customary. Part of doing business. Matter of pride.

The just-waxed paint reflected every single satellite in the sky, Every looping inch of neon in the electric insanity of the Strip, Every single towering rock in Monument Valley, Every night-lit church steeple in the Boston suburbs, Every Mantle night-game homer soaring out of The house that Ruth built, Every F-104 scrambling to intercept a bogey. The soft, black backseat leatherette Caught all the tiny