There might have been several drinks
more than a teenager should
the summer skin around us, temperatures
orange and red, life cruising fast.
We were all about a dare — bottle high out the window
my arm poised for a pitch,
glass smashing against a bright red STOP.
Stop. Stop. A tape flipping in the player
we, flipping in our seats. If there had been an owl,
a simple flutter or hoot, even a ruffled grouse,
I’d have steered differently, drawn in the arm
like a broken wing. Protected the urge to smash.
I would have smalled myself to a
warning, watchful, objective eye.
Today, I would be incriminated,
evidence stored in a phone or camera at the
intersection. Would they have seen
my anger or freedom? My living or dying?
