The potholes and the ruts
bring to mind Bud’s skull,
cratered by a Philly cop in ’45 but
it guarded Tempus Fugit
and Un Poco Loco
to spill one day like rivulets
of melted snow in April,
through cortex-creased,
donkey-nibbled hills
in morning sun, glittering
synaptically. Defiantly, because.