to be driving
with the windows cracked

hearing the cold air
of October and still
radiating

The
unfamiliar
indie rock
was giving me a mellow
smirking
high like nostalgia
sent from the future

I didn’t want to park

Southport Road led to Pottstown

hunter green
woods on
each side of the
two lane
screaming yellow
glowing orange
teasing red
escaping the blue tint of the
overcast dusk

The deli and tap seemed far away
and I had the eyes of a stranger

A rusted out dump trunk on
the side of the road
next to the shed

I crossed the railroad tracks
and Kickapoo Creek to
the road named after it

I hung a left and began
a steady acceleration
into the straight away

tingling anticipation

the leaves had a hint of it
in their color

the trees knew it
from their age

and I sped
toward it