by scorellis

For telling bold lies
About late night rides
With savage, fast paces
Under blackened skies,

For midnight train chases,
And closing gate races
With swift tailed birds
And their feathery embraces:

For the sprayed up muck,
And a well pointed buck,
And for making me wear it,
even when I fuck

For racing trains,
Through wooded lanes,
Crosswalk diving
And making me take Main

And for all my mirth,
(for what it’s worth)
Laughing
That extra mile to Kenilworth:

And for the perpetual ringing
And distant singing
of the crashing gate bell,
And its drifting dinging,

And for tricking me
Into accidentally killing
A 13 striped ground squirrel,
And a toad:

For making me dance,
For every missed chance,
And going knee to knee
In a standing stance,

For each walking meeting,
And cold trick-or-treating,
For each meter I cursed
And this poem, so over-versed:

For angry skunks,
a chattering chipmunk,
And that girl on the path
Lugging her bright red trunk

Through 40 miles of tight knit land;
For every blasting grain of sand
In November’s cutting gusts,
And wintery cold demand,

Strung with slow dismember,
so far I won’t remember
To watch for stray car doors,
Or the fallen, stray timber:

And lastly (finally)
For white retrievers off leashes,
And sand blasting beaches
And elevator races to
Manadnock’s stairway reaches,

For two twisting winds
Dressed like big leafy twins
Bullies, they knocked
Me down for my sins,

And finally (really this time)
For every kilometer
That I wore my bike seat
Like an angry thermometer.