Fred Aiken Writing

Category: Poetry

the river looks like a puddle of blood

flowing up north

towards the open valley extending out into a great big void,

like a pothole that needs to be filled,

but we don’t have the budget to do anything about

all the jerking motions i made as a teenager

seemed to have come back to haunt me,

as each morning i wake up

i keep hearing the laughter of my peers

echoing between my ears to no avail,

and no matter how much therapy,

i can’t seem to sit still

the car seat next to me sits bare

in untouched space in the form of glass molded to the curves of the car,

an unoccupied lair;

silence echoes through the stillness of the ride going home, or nowhere i can be found

there’s no laughter, no chatter, no company to see

just the hum of the engine,

the sound of the road,

a commute in routine

sheltered by a piece of steal wanting to kill me

the moment i drive off this cliff and into a tree