my clandestine life

i roll around a violently dull suburb at what used to be 9 am. i’ve avoided these particular lines on maps because they once carried you in that beast of rusted metal you called yours. the only thing bigger on the street was your smile and we were never sure if the smoke came from the truck or your cigarettes. it was browner than april mud and as worn as our faces after you were stolen from your family. i will never forgive the thief, and if it were possible to tie God’s hand to a stump and sever it at the wrist it would be done.