SandScript 2020

The driver torques the throttle like he hates
the grip, the machine explodes through
molecules of speed, and whines
through the air becoming the beast
of time in calculus class, assignments not completed,
homework, red-marked to its borders, and that Arizona
is thousands of miles from his home. There,
he’d never ride a motorcycle into the
beauty of a dry spring Arizona night;
head floating with hedonistic beats and his hair
alive, planning its escape from the scalp.
Somewhere, say after two miles, you give yourself
over to any fate; that involves asking forgiveness
for these selfish choices to scream near the moon,
which wouldn’t dare singe your wings.
POETRY
And as you dart between sedan and coupe,
truck and curb, you sense the ability to
actually, reach out, at speed,
and caress a car you’re passing, and it takes
all your will to hold back your left hand;
the one that knows nothing and is often
ashamed of itself, from petting a sports car.
Some miracles are about water changing or dividing; cripples
becoming dancers or inept athletes saving the season. Others
are about events not unfolding into tragic predictability
and nothing at all taking place; arriving home whole,
smiling, thanking fate for its gentle touch,
its gracious understanding of silent idiots.
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