Here at the Track

by Benjamin Kirby

And there, sitting on the bright silver bleachers, hot to the touch

I catch the beauty of the late afternoon sun against your brown hair

As the Lee Greenwood warbles through the old white speaker

And the spangled flag waves around turn one, above a faded checkered mural

We watch the dark clouds, jump at the thunder, until there is a rainbow

And then, the race, the race, and the cars so loud you can feel your jawbone vibrate

Pick a random number and root for it to make a pass, to cross a checkered flag

While your father scrolls social media, because someone shot the president

And is there going to be unrest?

Is there going to be an uprising?

What does it mean?

Are my sisters safe?

Am I safe? Am I safe?

But the race runs hot and fast and you can almost lose yourself in the heat of it

While your little sister ignores her flat chicken nuggets and you drink a purple Gatorade

And then you yell, Number seven, Go! Come on! as he slides around turn two

But then the wall, hard, not fast, not racing fast, but enough, enough to feel it

Watch the yellow flag, the red flag

Watch the ambulance, the tow truck, the fire truck

Watch the yellow curtain go up around his prostrate body

Watch your dad, still scrolling through history, thinking about what to say, if anything

And feel the chest compressions on the little patch of grass by the track

Smell the burned rubber and oil and the fuel

And the agony of waiting to see, to hear what happened to the driver, whose name you don't even know

Think about a prayer, which you don’t do, but yeah, okay, maybe now

And beg God for some small mercies, just one or two, here at the track

BIO: Benjamin J. Kirby writer and father of three living in St. Petersburg, Florida. His poetry can be found in more than a dozen literary magazines and journals. For eight years, he produced the award-winning political blog The Spencerian. Short stories, poetry, and more can be found at BenjaminJKirby.com.