Rock, Paper, Scissors

Rock, Paper, Scissors

Geography is out of control.
Seems like I’m downloading my GPS daily,
Trying to find myself
Among all the new addresses.
Checking my passport
For the jurisdiction
Of the state I’m in.

I’m told you now have to prove you’re legal
To get a driver’s license.
I’m wondering,
“If you have the proof
Where do you need to go?”

I learned to drive
On I-20 between Abilene and Dallas.
I was 15,
Gas was cheap,
Engines were full of horses,
200 miles to Northpark Mall
Was just a seatbeltless Sunday drive.
Joy was at 90, no radar in sight,
Wisdom the product of Burma Shave.
That’s all the proof I’ll ever need
For driving legal.

Moses drove
A big yellow school bus on a
Deserted desert highway,
Egypt to the Promised Land.
No muffler,
Full of brown people
With crying babies, and
Clucking chickens in cages.
He got his license
On top of the mountain.
Etched in stone
By the Chief of Police himself --
Hung it on the rear view mirror,
With the fuzzy dice.

I’m an old man now,
Maybe not old enough…
I’ve learned a lot of things,
Probably not enough…
But I’ve concluded that
Legal is just a piece of paper
Laid over Moses’ rock,
A sure winner –
‘til its
Cut to shreds
By the scissors
In a desperate man’s hands.