Rain On Asphalt
Our city is three restaurants, a roller rink, and a rundown dorm. We fly over red brick roads on truck beds and the squeaky wheels of shopping carts. Don't ask where we got them. Nothing good ever happen in this town, so we happen for ourselves, screaming at the moon and each other and running through the lakes that form when it rains. And our city knows how to rain. She is dying and old but we are dying and young. Well-matched, we are seventeen and waiting on an epiphany. Here is as good a place for one as any. We sit under the cover and wait for the storm.
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