Frank Exchange of Opinion on the Grove

Two blocks away I hear him
foot hard on the accelerator
four cylinders
pounding successive
staccato combinations
down the narrow road
where trees, parked cars and
Stobie poles
all potential starting blocks
for impetuous children
to hurl themselves out in front
of this metal juggernaut.

My children.

He flies into view over the rise
like Bullitt
with pimples and peacock hair
and I give him a slow clap
each steady percussion says:
virgin
no woman will ever touch
your small,
flaccid
cock.

He seems to understand
and responds with
a jaunty middle finger:
whatever grandpa.
What are you, like, forty?
Get fucked.

And I hope the sour taste of it
stays with him
a little longer than with me.