Free Entry 1 Week 12

Twelve and Legendary

That time we headed north on Love Street dotted

with hybrid houses and slumping trees, the concrete

branched toward us like the many armed Christmas tree

on Mr. Bill’s carport for my Birthday, your Birthday,

Halloween, and Independence Day. That day

we were independent, our Velcro wallets back-pocketed,

stuffed from dishwashing, grass cutting, 

floor scrubbing all summer.

We’d been saving for

a place called “Hell Track,” where Jeremy

said the mounded grounds bred

the red-orange grit. Slopes constructed as if all the ants

in the world gathered to build, then left the ruins

for our scooters, bikes, the Big Wheels abandoned

by someone’s cousin. When we arrived  

Garrett McCoy big as Hogan and wearing combat

boots guarded the tip of the trail,

demanding dollars to pass.

 

We threw our dares like darts and watched

the triple strike between the blades.

The victim risked more than pride on wheels,

backwards, sideways, roller coaster arms,

watching the wrong side of the world, like the time Katie Carpenter

and I ran away after bologna and cheese sandwiches

on her back porch card table, burning

until we reached the tracks where we balance-

beamed steel and hop scotched crossties until we

felt rocks rattle wood.

It was like that sometimes at Hell Track. I remember

Donnie LuAllen, pegged with the triple dog, skied  
the “Dead Man’s Hill” on a garbage can lid. He zoomed down the curve before

tin folded against the mound’s foot.

Donnie landed and rolled on a wobble

like a bottle cap. We ran to him, Donnie laid limp,

mouth wide as ours, closed shutter eyes,

white-faced. After several missed

inhales, Donnie’s shutters slowly lifted

with a long groan, he was a legend.

That day we understood what it would mean

to lose our breath, to never get it back,

like being underwater paddling towards a bottom

in Marianas Trench, with screaming lungs

losing more than air.