Incognito friend, thank you
for the sobriquet,
for my first fake ID, naming me
Johnny Casanova.

Nobody's ever called me Johnny
across a smoky lounge or over a phone
but, still . . .

I'm almost ready to manumit,
for surrender:  a letting go
of Adam.

Find me in this vehicle,
with all the work still needed,
on an even-numbered interstate
and slap this face, with whichever
arm's your strongest, toward sunrise.

Most likely I'm on my own
idling on an asphalt shoulder
but if not, I'm a hostage
at the helm.  I could probably
use the help.  Probably
in the kind of trouble
we'll need all night to shake.

If the sign reads odd, make sure
I face the buffed-out hot waxed
spot on Polaris' distant tail.  
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