Driving at right Angles

              Driving at Right Angles

I didn't grow up in the hood
I grew up in the alley
where Mother Nature wins every bout
and once you step into the ring,
She'll explode your life and earthly possessions
into a pile of kindling before the first round's begun.

My mother was a chaser, a tracker, a hunter
galloping across the plains in
her Buick behemoth,disembodied male voices from the CB
squawking coordinates, squaw lines, super cells, funnels and touch-downs,
"always driving at right angles to the storm,"
As I rode shotgun.

Often crouched upon the floor-mats
as grapefruit-sized hailstones pummeled
our steed, blood rushing, lungs sucking in negative ions,
"fight or flight!" screamed adrenaline
We rode on, "always driving at right angles,"
Like insane stock car racers playing chicken with no finish line.

Our eyes never left our targets,
bobbing, weaving,
"driving at right angles" of their own,
snow-white dancers
against a blue-black prairie sky.