Sheeted in steel, embedded face to
face,
They idle in a feelingless embrace,
The only ones at last who had the nerve
To crash head-on, not chicken out and swerve.
Inseparable, in one closed car they roll
Down the stoned aisle and on out to a hole,
Wheeled by the losers; six now shorn of beard,
Black-jacketed and glum, who also steered
Toward absolute success with total pride,
But, inches from it, felt, and turned aside.
Jonathan Holden