57

the white lights are closer.

sirens. sirens!

ma’am… speeding citation… driving 57 in a 35…

57. 

in a 35.

57 in a 35 57 in a 35 57 in a 35--

license…  insurance card… please?

trembling hands pick through wallet

footsteps, door slam

red blue red blue red blue

7 minutes of eternity

spasming shivers

uncalled for coldness 

pulsate

through sweaty thighs matted on 

dirty white leather

head bends below the wheel,

hands soak the flood of tears

cars swerve around

a click of a tongue

a roll of the eyes

a deep sigh

door slam, footsteps

call… parents… 

mom’s prob-probably asleep… dad… will… kill… me… 

please leave a voicemail… 

he’s n-not picking up…

let’s go home

foot pushes pedal, 

car moves forward,

shaky,

slow,

scared

breathing not right

empty girls are nothing.

empty girl is 57, 57 is nothing. 

57 is home.

d-dad… police is here

ma’am... sign here… juvenile court date… to be decided

court. 

57 is a criminal, a shame. 

speeding ticket, hundreds

of dollars, points on record,

license no more

run 57.

hide 57.

die 57.

17

bus 17, that’s his bus. 

december 17, that’s his birthday.

17, that’s his number, his everything.

he was my everything so 17 was my everything. 

17 equals the number that has been on my

back for 7 years on hockey sweaters

and soccer shorts through the good

but mainly the bad.

17 is the age i thought would be magical

but it isn’t. 

17 is estrogen and pimples and

tears and blood stained pants 

and heartbreak and more tears

and SATs and love.

i’m 17 and insane.

7

7th chair. 7th chair, outside stand 4th row out of 7 rows.

the exact middle of the chaos

orchestra brings.

7th for 3 years. 9, 10 and 11th grade, i’ve been thrown

into spot 7. not 12, 5, or 3

but that damned outside middle seat

not bad… but not good

no improvement… but no deterioration

we’re playing dvorak’s 7th 

this year

how very fitting, how very funny

Mother Chance.

hahaha joke’s on me, i get it.