You’ll go—
fast as you can
and feel free
and feel nothing
and feel the same.
like always
This air feels like last
August. The same
heat, months later.
You’ve lived
a whole lifetime—fifty
minute increments of
hesitant incarceration.
over
You’ll slip into rectangles
of blue blue chlorine; your eyes
sting. It is familiar.
You’ll forget to wake
up in time.
You’ll stay out too late. Barefooted, feeling
the days warmth ease out of
the streets. Breathe
in the air—so humid it chokes
the back of your throat.
Look up at your bedroom ceiling
at eight thirty at night. It’s still
light outside, the neighborhood
kids play.
Think about your what next.
Then, be reckless. Make a mistake
and pay the consequences. Hold
a stranger’s hand. Look
someone in the eye.
risk
Soon it’s August and that air
which felt like freedom
will press you back
to the familiar.
to the not-quite-yet.
For now—
go.
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