Afternoon drive

On a winding road,
on a damp Friday when
even your bones feel wet and
wind whips the aerial like a
cruel high pressure wash that
removes no dirt,
you drove up to those outlands where
wooden signs creak
sullen under
what’s left of winter.

You were surprised, at the persistence
of life flashing its
mangled brown
choppers, and industry
gasping in
a cold charred patch of no man’s land, left for
illiterates and incest pigs scratching
roots from the ground.

You made your way through
main streets, off beaten paths down to
pillows of snow atop frozen water, where
a lone teenager
lets himself be
lifted by the gale, tied to a sail flying high
screaming sing songs below in
his windbreaker—
a glorious afternoon
skipping school.

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