The Overmountain Man is driving a truck
A big diesel pickup, looming, and not very nimble.
Overmountain Man drives aggressively, perhaps
But not rudely, he thinks
This is a busy college town.
Bicyclist rides in the road
It's his road, as much as anyone's, by gosh
He rides in the middle of a lane
And then toward one side of a lane, without mirrors
To aid him, and then the middle again.
As a traffic light turns red, just ahead
The Bicyclist slows faster than the diesel would prefer
The Overmountain Man, behind,
Slows slower than comfortable, for the Bicyclist.
Who stops abrubtly, angrily.
Well short of the vehicle ahead, at the intersection
The Bicyclist yells indecipherably over his shoulder at the
Overmountain Man, who returns a "What...Who me?" pantomime.
The Bicyclist pulls forward some,
So, of course, does the Overmountain Man.
The Bicyclist turns and pedals around behind that big diesel
And bluetooths a license plate number to an unseen savior
The light changes and everyone goes along
Without further disharmony, much
And without bloodshed
The Overmountain Man is overdue for feeding
And he's still looking, sniffing for a place that suits him
Backtracking across the college town he sees now again, and smiles
Toward the Team Post Office unitard of his friend the Bicyclist,
Sitting now in the median of a far busier highway
A minute later, Overmountain Man decides maybe this diner, but
After pulling into the lot, he changes his mind again
Before exiting, though, the big diesel is surrounded by Policemen,
Who ask him about an incident of road rage
The Overmountain Man would cast a long & broad shadow.
Overmountain Man says that none of the rage belonged to him
And that passive-aggression shouldn't command 911 attention
The Senior Policeman seems confused at the phrase,
"Professional Victim Beta Male" but not much amused.
The Overmountain Man is a brute, obviously, and not a poet.
The passive-aggressive beta male would not carry a gun
But, gladly, would use one that is wielded by someone else.
He is happy to pick a fight, so long as he is not in it.
There are no consequences to crying "Wolf"
So far as he knows or cares.
If the Indians had had bluetooth cellphones
They could've called 911 for someone to deliver a stern talking to
To those trains, and their brutish Conductors like Overmountain Men
Who'd be taught certain painful lessons, while horses would remain
Without poetry or progress.