Steve Onepot Himmer:

Speed trap

All night here anonymous engines rumble around the traffic island, fishtail across the parking lot of the hotel up where the quarry and the jobs used to be, and shake the plastic chairs on our front porches as they howl by in streaks of accessory chrome and tall spoilers. They lay smoking black trails through the neighborhood and blow tarry clouds through our windows to creep up the lengths of humped beds like soft-padding cats intent on stealing our breath, blanket the backs of our throats until we wake coughing from nightmares of drowning.

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