99th and Loomis and the road
turns deadly. “We’re at the end
of the world,” he says. Cigarette ash.
There are no
lights in the sky, no stars, cityscape
be damned, quiet

in the streets. “Quite
dangerous here, yes?” The road
curves, no escape,
a dead end.
“We’re lost.” “I know.”
“We’re goners.” “Ashes

to ashes,
dust to dust.” We get real quiet.
I panic like no-
body’s business. The road
is a gaping jaw, an end
swallowing its tongue and all the cityscape

all at once, everything I know escaping
from my grasp like ash
off my cigarette. Another dead end.
“Turn around,” I say, breaking the quiet.
The small cracked driveways of the little road
spread out like dead veins. “I don’t know

where we are.” “I know.”
I am his favorite scape-
goat, martyr on the alter, ash
in a crucifix on my forehead. The road
is called “Prospect.” “Turn right. This ends
out on 95th, I’m quite

sure.” He is quiet.
I know
him well enough to know the end
of his anger is his escape
into silence. His face is ashen.
Darkness is the road.

Then, lights above the road. “I knew it.”
It’s the end of our escape,
and it’s as quiet as soot and ash.

06/25/2008

Posted on 06/25/2008
Copyright © 2010 Stephanie Lane Sutton