The truck shifts iffy but the engine
thrums regardless, I’m rumbling
through late winter early nights
not knowing what gear I should
grind deeper into. What I know
for sure—on concrete roads named
after states I’ve never made wishes
within—is I’m too old for certain
reverse, have lived my share of
low-rev days. Call all you’re willing
to love a spark plug: no one ever
knew the paths, and the beer I’m
driving to I’ll raise in toast to what-
ever unnamed desperate street runs
parallel in you. Here’s to the zoom
of night: let’s make wishes through
every intersection regardless of
light’s color, no matter what we want.
Weston Cutter is from Minnesota.