The town where I was grown
cultivated the inert, and tourists.
Away, a word used in prayer.
Sick of hills thicketed with spires,
the poor, I was full-throttle toward gone.
Fastest out was the prize I tore ass
to win, to leave the stifled rest
to choke in my wake, an alarming roar
no one must’ve heard under the rain
the cheerless day I first parted my own air.