Coppa Ascerbo Poem by Bernard Henrie

The Colliers Magazine for 1939
says the Fascists are behind the race.

Yes, too late I think of these things,
steering around the 42 car to grab
a shaky lead, his blue-black
colors glare against my racing green.

We race along the Adriatic;

Hitler is racing into Poland, you don't
have to shout, I heard the news.

Jewel pigments off the sea chop,
the backlit clouds and vapor trails
form a garland over the black road;

ascending into the ancient streets
of the Coppa Acerbo villages,
a carabineri with a white baton
holds back the road race crowd;
Borsalino hats dot the townspeople.

If the townspeople are Jews,
newsreels show the SS marching
them away with only a suit case.

My goggles fleck with road grease.
Raindrops flatten on the windscreen,
salt-white cupolas advertise ESSO
oil, weather-stained logos for Firestone
tires pasted on every bridge.

The German tank drivers wear goggles,
have you seen them?

The blower crams raw fuel into the motor
forcing me back into the seat; a cramp
coils up from my lower leg.

The 5 car skids, a driver slams forward;
the engine plate furls and snaps.

Pits and paddock areas are overrun
with refueling cars; a mechanic is run down.

Paris will be run down, Alsace-Lorraine again,

Next, a nightmare right turn;
heat from the gearbox below the chassis,
the steering wheel shimmies, a vinegar smell
escapes from the clutch and fills the cockpit.

I cannot slow for the chicane.
A sweet moment occurs, my race deaf ears
hear again, the colors grow vivid, flags furl
and disappear, only the driver unaided
in his universe smiling into June afternoons,
olive trees beside the grandstand rush toward
me, just off the Adriatic coast a U-Boat
surfaces to smile into the face of Italian
naval officers.