By Oreste Belletto
We died drag racing in the 50’s,
me small and nervous, John,
tall and handsome, fused to the metal,
smoldering on Main St. in some small town.
In this incarnation,
he still corners like a madman.
He feeds you smoke from the stoplight
in his personalized Concours.
The “Millennium Falcon” goes too fast
to change or stop or even see ignition coming.
Painted a color that bright, we agreed,
it wasn’t just kick-ass, but kick-your-ass orange.
He drives with the windows down
and heater on.
I feel my legs fall slack and I stop bracing for turns—
slosh to the right around this tight corner.
I’m going paraplegic in advance,
to save fate the trouble. Instead of the imagined
hard squeal of tires, quick thunk and red darkness,
the whispering infusion of wind
and belly rumble from the engine
lures us into time, on smooth suspension,
alone, and we fire through the world
gone fittingly still.
Oreste Belletto is 53, and living in San Francisco. He has a master’s in poetry from UC Davis. He has had poems published in Byline Magazine, Exquisite Corpse, The Lilliput Review, and nycbigcitylit.com, and has work pending publication from Zoetic Press, Eclectica Magazine, and Midway Journal. Instagram: @ADHDork