Not so rhymey

Demolition Derby: A Story Problem
for Lennon and McCartney, who both died

Rocky, in Yellow #9, screeches out from Point A
at exactly 11:37 PM.
You roar from Point B at 11:38,
your ‘63 Olds already smoking.
You cannot factor in the price of gas (∞),
limbs, or neck = these accidents are intentional.
Floodlights, motor oil fingers. A red Ford,
Rita on its door, hungry for war,
careens out of left. She crumples
like a Coke can 2 feet from your bumper, a casualty
of the LeBaron’s trajectory.
The Romans cheer, spill their 12 ouncers.
Last Man Standing wins a $1000 guitar!
This excess, this violence in all its onomatopoeia
dismantles a Continental to fractions
of metal, flying fractals of glass. A dirt clod lodges
in your eye. The LeBaron twists into a garish corpse, its black spirit billowing. Gooseflesh, the scream
of a cat, an orange flame, and you hit the gas.
It all happened so fast.
Your lips mumble the answer: number 9 number 9 number 9