Lilacs in one nostril,
Exhaust in the other,
The air in my lungs a bittersweet paisley
As I ride Jim's immortal fields.

Like a church is the congregation
And not the building,
The streets are my friends,
As ubiquitous as broken glass.

Each intersection is a threshold
Where I face the unwitting soldiers of death.
Only in battle do I feel free
And closer to birds than any airplane.