wind whistling through my hair,
a soaring freedom and abandon—
nearing recklessness as I ignore
the possibility of New Jersey drivers
taking red octagons as mere suggestions.
I, too, hail from the same place,
and this unspoken barrier is one
I am not afraid to circumvent.
who put up the stop sign between
those of your title and mine?
two letters need not mean so much,
when it comes to my daring approach.
I imagine your willingness to unsee
all their eyes to see only mine
would feel as frightfully exciting
as my blind rides o’er childhood hills.
the spark we could not see between us
lit a sense of joy and safety in me
my fabricated armors never could provide.
our eyes may open now,
or maybe I’ll close them,
as I toe the line where I decide—
to begin my racing pursuit.