That’s just the title
of this poem.
A catchy phrase.
To get things goin’.

For locals who’ve seen,
The road I reference.
Know this to be,
An unlikely occurrence.

Maybe a Porsche
By accident turned.
Maybe a Porche,
That never returned.

Maybe a Porche
From an urban visitor,
One with a Rolex,
And a Fitbit pedometer.

A New Yorker, of course.
Who else would tread.
Into the woods.
With tires to shred.

Going like 60,
On Fox you’re in trouble.
Slide into a tree.
The forest, see double.

Once the ice
settles into the road.
Traction is scant.
Time to get towed.

If you’re lucky,
You’ll just skid a little.
Clutch the wheel.
Hope. Settle.

The road connects
Silverbrook, New Hartford.
The road detects
Pretenders, impostered.