I tell you the McClaren F1 story, watching your face.

The one about the six-figure fuel cell: You are puzzling over my overbright tone

and my hand on yours; I can't unbend your bent stillness.

I only make my quick exit to join the other animals

herded and hurtling in the dark. Rabbits outrunning Jaguars,

Stingrays drafting Rams, left to center to right.

I leap and dart with an Impala, mile after mile, and imagine you,

steered by your elbow, easing into Donepezil dreams,

when you were the Mustang among us. You carried us and I rode shotgun,

small and awake with you to crest the moonlit chrome fields,

to marvel at your Chosen Spot, your cornfed Model A.

I send this back to you through my roaring, open window,

and brake to let the Impala by, let myself drift once more

with your hand on the wheel.

--E. Fleming