The Lex hit a shield of ice
On a bridge and kissed the guardrail,
Our bumper crumpling like foil
Ten miles from Hoboken.
The tags had expired
And cops would be coming
So Michael, panicked,
Took the packs to a near field
And sliced and turned them
Inside out, wiping
The last glister of fishscale coke
Onto the gray-toothed ground.
Two smirking troopers pulled up.
Damage was assessed,
The trunk unlocked and prodded.
They just let us go . . . .
We headed back to Philly in the dark
Worried and bored,
The bumper lashed with nylon cords,
Right wheel whining, eating the blacktop.
Last year they shot Devon in the ankle
For getting stuck up with the day’s take.
We’d lost sixty-thousand
In the snow near Hoboken.