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ROUTE 14

Cleveland, OH

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He gnaws his skin

like a death-sentenced raccoon

biting the bars

of his live-trap.

He whimpers

like one too

when he drives the cracked block,

feels the tar it needs,

thinking of better roads

as he thumps along

to the mumble

and scrape

and high

ting ting tink

of bullet

casings knocked away

by his slow-churning wheels.

 

He wants to hold the world’s hand

like a man on his knees,

like a man

kneed in the ribs

for proposing.

 

His stoop slants.

He’s used to driving out

echoes of all this shotgun

house has seen.

He drives in anyway.