Freedom

by Dan McGee

Holding of a cigarette out the window,

my friend resembled

the Statue of Liberty;

the torch stood out against the night

(in the wind its small ember burning brighter and dying quicker).

Like the highway median below,

the lit tip traced

in a blur

of orange

and ashes

our line of aimless driving

(and I

was a series

of separate dashes

on the ground).

All summer long, thoughts in the back seat.

I was excited (terrified and impatient and sad)

with reaching wherever we were going.

We craved to need something

so we picked up smoking

and tried to ride out boredom.

It was hard to hear or be heard over the music

(its blare

filled my friends

with the same void buoyancy

they attained from fizzy pop)

as the outside shot by through sheets of the car glass.