Lucas took one of those trips
That Americans of a certain rage
Must take—to find themselves.
In Utah Lucas found himself marooned
In the wilderness, 50 miles
From society, covered in flop sweat
And Cheetos dust, perched on the roof
Of his teenaged Pinto as it neighed
A swan song. His cowed cell phone crowed:
Out of range, where seldom is heard
A word. Should he hike back to Moab?
Should he wait for his satellite
To synch or should he scream like Job
And curse the day he was born?
To keep awake he stared at the sun
And sneezed. After a week, he came to
Believe that snakelets were zagzigging
From his brain to his heart so that
He felt what he thought. That was enough
To move Lucas from hood to the earth.
He mimed building a fire and cooking
A can of beans. At dusk, Li Po,
Came down from the foothills, looking
For Keith Moon. Lucas offered regrets
And faux joe. They discussed The Who.
“’Substitute’ is their best song,” Lucas said.
The poet disagreed: “‘Magic Bus’—
The version on Live at Leeds.”
From the arroyo Steve-the-saguaro
Plucked his mesquite ukulele
As he sang, “Thank My Lucky Stars
I’m a Black Hole.”Lucas joined on
The chorus and Li Po shadow waltzed.
Later, over spirits, Li Po cupped
His ear and whispered, “Do you hear
The hoo-hah of hoof beats? The great herd
Is here to lead Old Paint to that
Better place ‘where the graceful whooper
Goes gliding along like a handmaid
In a blissful dream.’ Lo siento.”
Then Lucas submitted to gravity.
When the highway patrol found him
He looked like a dried peach. They emptied
Their canteens over his face until
His skin sprung back, like a Colt pistol,
To the lifelike. On the bus ride home
Lucas slapped himself silly, chanting:
I want it, I want it, I want it . . .