You're in a race; two on the grid
with an empty track, swept clean by
tumbleweeds; surrounding dirt
lacks vibrancy, a straight path: white paint
a quarter mile ahead. The world around starts to smear peripherals, all you see is
red, yellow, tires squealing behind, smoke hugging you with it's rubbery embrace,
yellow, the smog clears. Steering wheel feels sticky: a warmer touch, enveloped into the
seats, piercing through the windows, yellow. The clutch clutches itself,
tired with athletic abuse, hesitant for half a second and
Red. You become an obstacle,
an immovable force that coughed up
it's pink slip, it sneezed: a barbeque pit of fried oil
boils the hood, a char smelled
a quarter mile far.