Racing to the End

The electric company laughed
as we passed the last living trees,

barn rooves sloped away
into a tilted summer dark.

The future ended up lasting weeks and weeks—

we used it sparingly.

They had us arrested for trespass
with unremarkable faces, and yes, of course

we were drunk, with a few girls, shouting,
for blocks and blocks and blocks in our cars,

but other people sleep through their pain,
so why shouldn’t we?

For us, the old bard sonnets pressed
too hard upon our feeble skulls

with the word honor— no such animal exists,
only the grief of angry gods,

and they should accept their deaths
just like the rest of us.

Michael Dwayne Smith haunts many literary houses, including Gargoyle, Chiron Review, The Cortland Review, New World Writing, Third Wednesday, Monkeybicycle, and Heavy Feather Review. Author of four books, recipient of the Hinderaker Prize for poetry, the Polonsky Prize for fiction, and a multiple-time Pushcart Prize/Best of the Net nominee, he lives near a Mojave Desert ghost town with his family and rescued horses. His latest full-length collection goes from apparition to publication in 2024.