I’m going off again with older boys
who slouch in memorable shoes and coats
into the thickening forest or cars,
depending on their age, their chosen toy.
It never changes. Like a paper boat
gone floating off again with older boys,
caught in their current, I appear buoyant,
but gasp for air as I laugh at their jokes.
Into the thickening forest, our cars
first handheld (Hot Wheels, Matchbox), overjoyed
at being undiscarded, safe as smoke.
I’m going off again with older boys,
the indifference I’m hoping to exploit
yet to undo me, a hole I float
above, a thickening forest: The cars
they shouldn’t be driving, the country roads
careening us away from country bars.
I’m going off again with older boys
inside the sticky fortress of their cars.
Gabriel Fried is the author of two books of poetry, The Children Are Reading and Making the New Lamb Take. He teaches in the creative writing program at the University of Missouri.
