The Chicago Manual of Style is really neat
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

the cops were after down at Sunny Point?
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.