Demolition Derby

C'mon, Car Eleven, take it back again and
back that limey green and grimy old sedan
across the muddy field and lay it into
Cheez-e-Puff -- and make it rough!
That dent's enough to strip his tire,
steer him off in sparks of fire -- fizzle-flash!
Let off the gas and go again! You'll do him in!
This time, you're sure to break him -- hit his
bumper-bending pressure points and hammer-holds --
get all those places meant to make
strategic creases
curdle in his skin --
direct his dented fuchsia flats and spray can mattes,
extended pipes and hoodpin whirly-gigs
toward the others' doors -- they're begging STOP
in red and gold as crewmen cringe,
their welding torches strewn across the scattered lot
with travel trailors, radiator spares, and forklift loaders
there to straighten crumpled plates exposed
by pushers, crushers, crashers, smashers,
bashers, smoking wrecks, jalopies,
resurrected junkers, clunkers
summoned up from fragments
of a muffler shop mechanic's dizzy dream...
I watch their final passes, car by car enduring
punishments, intentional and random, giving
damage, taking tolls, and one by one, they roll
to rest as Homer Simpson,
Bob the Sponge, and Mottled Rocket
all surrender patriotic waves to Number Eighty-Six!
O, cultured warriors of the fair, all hail
the victor, Eighty-Six, the Cutlass king --
the last to stand, the greatest mauler
of them all -- until tomorrow,
when the wagons start their engines
and the war begins again.