Yesterday, 10:45 AM
L. I. E.
L. I. E.
A drunk driver killed my father
racing down the L. I. E., his body burst
like a split seam, limbs littered the pavement.
On a Saturday morning, after the bars quiet down to a desperate pool of sticky-spilt
drinks, vomit and hair gel, I can hit 80 after crossing the WhiteStone. I play chicken
with the curbs, the gravel pings like buckshot off the chipped gloss-back fenders
of my Audi. I want the courage to scrape the "twin-turbo" emblem against
the guard rail, scar the doors but
a drunk driver killed my father speeding along the L. I. E., skipping across the median
like a smooth, flat stone sent spinning across the flat glass of the pond at the cabin
up on Brant Lake where he never taught me to fish.
I like the Meth clinics on the island better. Island girls will spend hours talking
in their low whisper drones about their daddies and their 18th birthday party
with their long, flat blonde hair and their sunken eyes and their palm sized tits
poking braless against their nightshirts. I don't need the escape like they do,
don't need to explain how
a drunk driver killed my father, speeding along the L. I. E. Leaving Manhattan
for the weekend on a Saturday night, after the bars withered down
to the desperate hustle. My father never would have driven drunk.
L. I. E.
A drunk driver killed my father
racing down the L. I. E., his body burst
like a split seam, limbs littered the pavement.
On a Saturday morning, after the bars quiet down to a desperate pool of sticky-spilt
drinks, vomit and hair gel, I can hit 80 after crossing the WhiteStone. I play chicken
with the curbs, the gravel pings like buckshot off the chipped gloss-back fenders
of my Audi. I want the courage to scrape the "twin-turbo" emblem against
the guard rail, scar the doors but
a drunk driver killed my father speeding along the L. I. E., skipping across the median
like a smooth, flat stone sent spinning across the flat glass of the pond at the cabin
up on Brant Lake where he never taught me to fish.
I like the Meth clinics on the island better. Island girls will spend hours talking
in their low whisper drones about their daddies and their 18th birthday party
with their long, flat blonde hair and their sunken eyes and their palm sized tits
poking braless against their nightshirts. I don't need the escape like they do,
don't need to explain how
a drunk driver killed my father, speeding along the L. I. E. Leaving Manhattan
for the weekend on a Saturday night, after the bars withered down
to the desperate hustle. My father never would have driven drunk.