Historic Sixty-Six

is insane as a wandering hobo 

crazy as an Amtrak 

slashing through town 

at a hundred-an-twenty,

whistle betting no kids on the track.

That machine will stop time 

as quick as white lightning 

from the mouth of the Big Mountain.

Cars and motorcycles gleam in the sun, 

polished and strolling like street whores 

east of San Francisco St. 

they never made it so far up route 66 

and never looked so classy. 

These cars’ polished chrome 

steals sun sparks, wearing them like Zarconian. 

In their pale blue glean 

and red gloss finish they strut 

in the Flagstaff sun, 

flaunt their new found independence 

like college freshman 

jetting from the bible belt.

Their mind, thin and daffy, 

pulled tight with acceleration, 

engines drunk and gleeful, 

pump through Route 66 like the

football team tears through banners

on homecoming weekend. 

These cars are newer than 

when they were bought.  

Their colors come alive: 

cotton candy on the eye, 

blue lady tough like diner steak, 

smooth jazz only white guys makes.

The day drinks a frosted mug of Genuine Draft, 

ice formed along the meniscus.