Jacked on Red Bull and Vodka - Nov 1 2023

 

Jacked on Red Bull and Vodka

Nov 1 2023

I’m always searching for signs.

The fallen tree

blocking the path?

The overcast

when they predicted clear?

The stray dog

I stumbled on

curled up at my door?

There are always signs;

the ones you notice,

the ones you ignore.

Today, it was the stop sign.

Target practice

the night before.

3 shots

clean through it

by some good ol' boy

in the back of a truck

on the gravel shoulder,

while his buddies passed the bottle

and hooted and hollered

and gunned the gas,

spewing shrapnel

and burning rubber

fish-tailing up the road.

I know, just restless young men

in a battered pick-up

someone probably stole,

jacked on Red Bull and vodka

and too much testosterone.

But scofflaws and firearms

and grand theft auto

are bad signs,

let alone all at once;

as if the rules no longer apply,

as if only the strong survive.

When the world

is already chaotic enough,

it's no wonder

the uncertainty

and sense of dread I feel

are getting progressively worse.

The tire tracks remain,

2 gouges

scarring the shoulder,

black tattooing the road.

Like a memento mori

of disorder and threat.

A sign

I should rightly ignore;

full stop,

staring straight ahead.