Trip

“Jesus! Fuck!“
gray cloud dragging on overhead
black grit on a newly scraped knee

pinch the wound
neutral tone sedans churn the air
Fat birds lean tired on dryer exhaust vents
backpack contents flip and skitter over lawn, road and sidewalk alike.

tight inhale past curled lips
Firmly gripped breath, like a hunter with a dead deer

“…piece of shit!“
as I send the board flying into a dormant lawn.