Shotgun

Shotgun

Mason Arbeiter

Handing Christ the wheel
Of my ‘01 Escape means
Forsaking the highways and
Ignoring the GPS.
She says, “Feel the straight-shot,
Two day, protein plant air,
Topped with a limit of 65”
But that wild grin from the
Backseat Savior climbing over
The mid-console while I shout
“Shotgun!” sets no reminder
Of my quarter-tank and empty
Wallet. He’s got his aviators
Tilted down, top gun of the
Back-wood bonfire bands.
I unfold the tattered map
Too old to know the interstates
I take like prescription. He swerves
Onto gravel forest service roads
Rough enough to make a
Sailor seasick. We stop
For every mountain view,
Fishing hole, and
In every town because
That guy’s got family everywhere.
He lets every hitchhiker into
My car without asking. I smell
Blood and regret from the
Two in the backseat now as
He stares at the rear-view mirror
For miles and we’re
laughing all the way.

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Mason Arbeiter
Poet & Student

Photography by Margarita Kreshchuk