ageing while driving
Parts around town are well lit and noisy for it, but there’s a stretch in the afternoon where, lulled to think the road unrolls forever, leaned back paying not so much mind, you find yourself on the grey side of town, where mom-and-pops lock up toward early bed time for the new born and old worn, where a street lamp elongates the shadow of a dog, relieved on the neighbour’s lawn, bounding up to shut the door and keep the cold out. Keep in a private warm.
Your cruiser feels tire-heavy turning arcs around family streets, over chalk outlines of hop-scotch, under wavering chimney vapours, past dinner dioramas and autumn leaves arranging into piles blown over from the neighbour who never quite got around to raking after that damn dog. Not that anybody keeps score; not that he doesn’t.
The playlist for such a silver evening is industrial distant, most birds wise to let the occasional train whistle speak for them or a child’s swing weep solo in the breeze. You hear the crunch of your tires despite the absence of gravel and drive on and at some intersection stand in the street, in the dim, watching your cruiser slip into the shadows until you are tail-lights.
