Freddie left the red and white cannon at speed. He whizzed over the open-mouthed crowd in a graceful crescent arc and was quite frankly bored, bored, bored.
The large frayed net loomed up, saggy
...
[+]
I do not tell anyone. I drive
and drive down 16 Mile,
paralleling the Freedom Trail.
My thoughts and time do not
touch. It is November. I lean into
the throat of winter as the evening
presses itself silently together.
Only tomorrow will I remember my
knuckles, white against the leather
wheel. Joints sharpening against
squares of orange light, falling.
On the way home, I think of highway
signs. The way they always tell us
where to go, how far, how fast.
There is comfort in the unflinching.