I cruise the roads neatly laid out in one-mile
squares until I take the turn that cuts catty-
corner across the county. Then I kick in the turbo
as I recall what the salesman said: Accelerate into the curve.
Don't pull back. Don't brake. Accelerate.
I take him at his word as I skim the backroads,
steer past corn and soybeans and wooded stretches
near water. I am light—like that moment in a scull
when your legs push so hard you hang from the oars
above the seat—untethered for a flash.
And I wonder how fast I can swing
past the white church with the red door
before I have to slow at the sign for my turn
onto the last straight road into town.