theshookfoil:

On the corner of Summit Street he works the pedals

like a desperate sailor hanging on the boom.

Clutch, break, gas; The Deathbox shudders

and rests again against the wet pavement.

He learned quickly that Ohio is a stern grandmother—

one with a penchant for pursed-lip

kisses followed by biting compliments.

You never know what you’re going to get.

You never get anything great.

On quiet nights he climbs the fire escape

and drops icicles into the clean sweep.

Like Dean Moriarty, he fancies himself vast,

feels cheated, somehow,

in the simplicity of Midwest misery.

There moments which stand out amongst the grey:

the flash of sirens

in the rearview mirror,

the shock of fear, the half-

moons he finds etched into his palms after

the ordeal is finished.

He holds these like medallions,

like something that survives a great

fire, and at night before he sleeps,

he wonders what would have been

if he had not run.