Rachel Contreni Flynn
An angry boy hides in the weeds, then emerges with a plastic sack
in his hands. The 18-wheeler moves slowly, enormously along
the rough road, like the years to come with nothing clean or sweet or warm.
The boy no longer hides but palms apple after apple, rotten with dirt and syrup, lets loose and hits the trailer broadside.
He's a pitcher, a sniper, a rock star.
He's a bit of starchy flesh smashed, then splashed into the air. The boy waits
on the road for the flare of brake li