Take the 29 up through Lovingston.
Water breaks at the ridge.
Deep breaths as they near, clear, and pass
the raccoon. No time to go back.

Such is a life left roadside and blinded.
I weigh what it’s worth again every
end June. Thirty-nine lines under eyes
now defending.

Dark circles from where I’ve narrowed
my gaze. Hands clutch the day like
a trinket I fought for. And, yes, I suppose
I’d rather tiptoe right past

this life that’s been stolen. I’m just the
bandit of what slipped through that night.
But, if you press me, I’ll growl “of course
it’s been worth it!”

Although, I’m not the raccoon,
in hindsight.