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