NASCAR, poem by Perry Higman

NASCAR (Penn­syl­va­nia 500  at POCONO, July, 1998)

To:   Gov­er­nor Tom  Ridge of Penn­syl­va­nia, giv­ing  a guest politician's dull monot­o­ne deliv­ery of the com­mand, "Gen­tle­men, — start — your  —  engines," at the start ofthe Penn­syl­va­nia 500  at Pocono –

From:   the young  freck­le-shoul­dered man on my right, wear­ing an old black Dar­rell  Wal­trip tank top, hold­ing his sec­ond  half-quart of Bud –

"He just doesn't fuck­ing get it, does he."

It's a gath­er­ing of Amer­i­cans from New York,

Boston, Rochester and

the South,

an uncount­able crowd

of over one hun­dred  thou­sand, come to celebrate

the thrill of free­dom we feel in work­ing, sav­ing up

for a car,

set­tling into the seat and sens­ing the weight of dri­ving  a steady 70, tank after tank of gas, across the country

on the Eisenhower

Inter­state System.

We come in a broth­er­hood and sisterhood

of things we know how to use

every  day –

tobac­co, beer, fur­ni­ture, guns, can­dy, pop

and soap –

gas, oil, Ford, Pon­ti­ac, and Chevrolet.

And we come to worship

our gods

of the open road — Dick, Dar­rell, Jeff, Dale, John, Bill, Jim­mie and Rusty, Ken­ny and Mike — who, like us,

have the same names,

and who, like us,

come from home­towns no one

out­side the fam­i­ly has ever heard of –

Chemu­ng, Kan­napo­lis, Huey­town, Batesville, Owens­boro,  Pitts­boro, Spanaway, Dawsonville,

Fen­ton and Randleman.

We come

in a uni­form of caps, and T‑shirts

to sing

with the soul

of the full-bod­ied Amer­i­can car­bu­rat­ed V8, and to hoist

our rebel civilization

up to the whole world's broad sky,