Deep in this dingy expanse, well beneath low, tomorrow's oil puddles reflect chrome fenders and snag tooth mufflers and that damn dumb grin of the captain of the racing
team, the Maganaw Mighty Rockets!
Why you never head of them?!

The wingman lives in the bedroom aligned with your daughter's boudoir, on his ledge she stands every night, teenage clockwork wound on love, in her hands rests her face, the moon and him, watching movies of himself watching movies of himself, silk skarf snapping in the wind. Check this ride, he says to her.

Listen friend: I hear their deathwish rumble in the distance. A carnival on the unused highway, yellow road music. That's right I got the smell. I was there. I got souvenirs from a crash on County Line. Feel my skull. Red flung ash, toxic hallucinations, spark plugs installed in the ear. I got a shelf on the trophy.

But listen: The race is on for Friday. The old Friday Spitfire. Pig Roast. I'm one of you now, don't get me wrong, but this therapy leaves me breathless, and it's the big payback. Tire treads on the kitchen tile like scars, gasoline is my blood plasma. But no, I won't race again. And anyway, I don't have a car.

--Joseph Weissman