after Horace

Like Jean Seberg, riding in a convertible, perfectly
blond, on the way to Montparnasse, almost innocent,
the top of the mind fully retracted, open
to the world’s cool breath, is the only way to travel,
though since luminosity (mot recherché
for blonde) is fleet as the frames that flicker past,
since rolled-down minds tempt clouds to burst,
“What are we waiting for!” must be the rallying cry
whether one drives toward Montparnasse directly
or takes the long route through plusieurs arrondissements,
keeping cool, smoking cigarettes, several at once,
as the mind in the quickening wind unravels,
leaving accrued experience to the elements, the weather
unheeded, diem seized, taut the unsnappable tether.