Original Poetry: Summer at Sixteen

The lightening morning
      in early July. I’m behind
the wheel of a new-to-me
      ’83 Dodge Aries;
my best friend
      sits shotgun.

Our wide, smooth
      country roads
slice the cornfields
      in full tassel
and morning fog gathering
      around the many creeks.

We have leather gloves
      and day-old summer jobs
shaping pines
      at a Christmas tree farm
carved from an orderly forest.
      And we are late.

A car–the other car
      is here in a grinding
shower of metal and glass
      against my windshield
and gone again. Swallowed
      into the white world.

My jittery limbs
      quake, threatening
to collapse
      if not
for the pounding–
      my heart; my head.

My friend
      “Fuck!”
bleeds
      from the bridge of his nose.
The innocuous visor
      tilted down.

Through haze
      I can now see
the other car
      has come to rest.
White pierces
      its shattered taillights.
 
 
 
 
 
[Check out other original poems here.]

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