Poems From Providence - The Poet's Press

VALKYRIES ON ROUTE 128
About those three blondes in a convertible —
a red one that wings on the six-lane thruway,
a blood-red Chevy that seems to leap over
the concrete barriers, weaving the maze
of plastic cones and flares and flashers
without a dent or a mishap. They never
turn off at a cloverleaf or pay a toll.
No one has ever seen them at Ho-Jo’s.
Lately they’ve started arriving at accidents,
pull men and boys from their flaming cars,
drape bone-broken bodies across the hood
(some dead, some moaning in final agony,
all in the prime of their youth and beauty,
death-clenched hands around bottles and cans).
No one knows where they take them.
Tourists see them with their bloody trophies,
hear strains of Wagner doppler by,
yet minutes later they can’t be found
by any convergence of patrol car,
roadblock or chopper or radio alert.
CB truck drivers report more sightings
before or after a major collision.
The police are understandably perplexed.
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