by Andrew Rihn
These whitewalls howl
as ghosts
along the nighttime asphalt
and my
brake pads feel like sponges.
The rear view
mirror, slick with paranoia,
waits
for the inevitable flashing
lights,
red and blue, behind me.
Static
cracks the radio silence like
a whip
and I am no longer riding on
Jack
Kerouac's dream –
because
this
is no longer
America,
1946.
Andrew Rihn is a student at Kent State University, where he is also a peer writing tutor. His poetry has appeared online in in journals such as the NeoAmericanist, Poetic Injustice, Dissident Voice, and Poets Against the War. He has had articles published in MR Zine as well as Praxis: A Writing Center Journal. Most recently, he won first place in Kent State's Wick Poetry Scholarship for undergraduates.
______________________________________________________