Killing Ringo Starr Poem by David Kowalczyk

The past five years
I've been driving a
Bloody Mary '69 Corvette
from Woodchuck Holler, Kentucky
to Sushi Beach, California.


Seventy miles an hour.
Nine hours a day.
Seven days a week.


Every night, a demon
hops into my Corvette
and zooms ninety miles an hour
in reverse, checking to see
if I paid the proper tolls,
remembered to tip at Denny's,
and always said:
'Please. Thank you. You're welcome.'


Every morning, I awaken
five miles closer to Hoboken
than the day before.


Perfectionism.
In my youth, synonymous
with saintliness.
In reality, a disease
which permits only one ending.