I remember
having gone
to Coney Island
and felt the cold
and watched the water
and the dark sky
was curative to me
and I was flying high
sailing.
So it was Friday
and I didn't want to go home
Yes!
some days I simply do not want
to go home
so I ride really
just glide in my
red big Bonneville.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Those Pontiacs... a reliable ride when one feels the disire to absorb the passings.