Maine. Standard. A Poem.

Maine.  Standard.  A poem.



The realization.

Your fuckin’ brain is stuck in neutral.

It’s more paralyzing than the realization itself.

There exists other gears that your brain could possibly operate in.

But you don’t have a clutch in this nightmare.

Or maybe you do, but you can’t find it.

Stomp at the floorboard like an ROTC cadet marching.

Yank the shifter into the shape of every letter of the alphabet.

Only thing you’ve done is created a cloud of burnt rubber smoke.

Can’t see over the hood of your overheated engine steam.

Your car ain’t goin’ nowheres.

Stalled out.

Try again.