The Chicago ‘Manual of Style’

when your composure cracks and ghosts

of silly girls come whispering to bother you –

this happens late at night – just kids

out for a bit of fun with a convertible

and a bottle of vodka like in a movie,

and ‘Hell,’ you think, ‘did I do that? Was I

involved with that mad young bitch

Was that me in Dad’s truck with the throttle

stuck open, cracking ninety down the beachfront?

With that... brunette... uh?’ Just about then,

on the edge of love and terror, the Chicago

Manual of Style appears and takes you home.