On an abandoned field
decrepit stock cars sit —
their painted numbers peeling,
their tires rotting to ground level,
children warned away as if from bees,
adults standing far, far back — fearful
of the fever again, afraid
of noise and hot wind.

You don’t understand
how it was for them, how it would have been
for you — the flow of cars
ratcheting by you so fast you
couldn’t catch up to them — not thinking
about anything except going fast
and holding your own fear in abeyance
long enough to relax when it was over.

Instead — you are an adult now, almost
an old man — you feel it all at once.
The pedal, the steering wheel, the sound
of tires on dirt. These kids don’t know.
You long to show them but it’s getting
late. Come on, you growl — it’s time
to get out of here. Above their protests
you indeed hear the faint roar of engines,
but you shake it off as if it were poison.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T