I have held forth
before, of course,
about my clambering
into language's car—
that weapon on wheels—
the loud suit
of armor—
and imperiously putting
the pedal to the floor.
But what I didn't
mention earlier
was that I
never learned
to steer,
so that renegade DeLorean
just excursions
where it wants;
and I'm frightened
a little
to be its servant
from inside it—
less like a storyteller
mowing down his readers,
and more like
a hapless
country squire
who used to dream always
of becoming a knight
but never
of having to go
to war.
