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midnight special, 3 am

it couldn't have been more special than this
more all-american
you
and me
and the shotgun
all setting off to open up a new chapter in our lives
down at the local seven eleven
where new beginnings happen once every few weeks
but our beginning would not be like the others'
something to be scorned and derided
those gooks and spics who work the counter
thinking this is their big break in america
four seventy-five an hour, hot dog
they can't even fucking say 'america'
our future
it will be a future with all the trimmings
and played our cards just right
and didn't blow the joint too bad
and we were excited
but before we could get going
you paused, a look of noticable concern on your face
i, however, did not take the time to notice
until you said, "wait.
stop."
urging you forward
(like i had to do with father, he was so stubborn)
(that's what landed him in the hopper - wouldn't leave
that place, the last heist, the bank: had to wait
"he'll be back and i'll be here"
- but not me, i said
and got the fuck outta there)
"goddamn charlie, i thought
you were cool with this
and when the fuck
did you get all moral on me"
all the hopes
all this -
all this money
all this -
"nope."
one word.
"goddamn, shit."
and i was so looking forward
to fucking those people up
smashing their heads
so fragile, so delicate
swinging my piece
solid in my hand
hard, black
cold
metal
right between their eyes.
that seven eleven
beacon in the darkness, home of
the slushee
place where cigarettes flow like gold
and the floor is stained
blood
the dreams
of america
beckon the youth
to get what they can


kelly_garner@unc.edu
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