Ode to Junior Year
around five, because the guy working the drive-thru
always asks me how I’m doing and gives me extra Freeze.
It’d be cool if I knew his name.
When I drive home, I take the long way. I go
out where the land can breathe with the heartbeat
of the rain and the streetlights’ flickering reflections
are washed by wet asphalt, glinting like tiny suns
underneath blankets of sky.
Hopelessly I oscillate around my own beginning and end: stuck
in this sleepy town, travelling at the speed of light
to today’s event horizon just to be sucked back
into another tomorrow. Soon it will be summer,
and summer is built out of thick, goopy days.
They stick to one another, bleeding together
into one giant, sweltering heap. At least, they have in the past.
I imagine trees will grow from this summer.
When I fly back down the spines of these back roads,
I’ll look forward to their tiny suns welcoming me back.
Maybe then my days will be better than Taco Bell.