I don’t know how to write anymore.
my gears turn without a
new drop of grease for months
for years at a time.
I trudge along
I’m scraping by.
I wrack up so many miles
but I’ll never make it farther than
miles and miles behind you.
I burn through rubber, so to speak.
If we’re all cars
I’m a race car in a neighborhood
the children at play as safe as ever.
I’m going 25 an hour
but I wear through tire after tire and
I’ve been too tired to
change them out myself.

I flatten the pedal to the floorboard
yet somehow
I slow down.
I squint
I can barely see through
this blanket of smoke.
it’s bleeding
it’s seeping through the air vents.
I’m coughing again, but
I push to just keep moving.
foot on pedal.
metal on pavement.
because
that’s how you keep a job
that’s how you keep friends
that’s how you keep people from asking too many questions.

Reagan Fleming