It was a yellow Corvair convertible
Ralph Nader's bogey
our ***-fueled chariot
our escape into the night sky.

We were strewn across a grassy ***** as if fallen from above
stars thick in the sky
still visible in those days
Page Mill Road
south of the City.

And all of the vanities
and honesties of brilliant youth
slouched about our shoulders
lit our speech
moved our *****
in the direction our fates intended.

It was freedom.  It was
escape. It was a foreshadowing
of much trouble
pre-dawn knocks on the door
handcuffs and the tearful call
home.

And a life leavened by sadness,
a constant sense of doom,

but a foreshadowing as well
of miracles dressed in second-hand
clothes,
but miracles just the same.