by Robert Ford
Though your car is now a million miles old,and its ruined suspension howls randomly, bone-spurs onto metal, the pistons still pushsweetly into their chambers. Lullabies play on. We chase down the wounded night, convinced we’re no longer part of the food chain. Not here.Outside, everyone is either sleeping, or talking with their feet and hands, buying fly-blown ideas, two for the price of three. They slump sack-like on the roadsides, spewing out of bars, high onlamplight, onto streets watermarked with history, thick with memory, archives of collective despair.But without this to underline us, we are nothing. We only learned to subtract and divide, never to multiply or amass. We are always the remainder.The radio pounds. We strap on blinkers. Drive.