Tom Barlow

Chance

At three a.m., the rest of the house out cold,
Chance rises | dresses in black | slips outside
to stand in the middle of the street | who doesn't
need to tempt fate sometimes |

He closes his eyes | listens to the songs
and slaughter of winged things |
arms extended, his world expands like echoes |
blood pounds on his eardrums | He rubs a thumb

against his index finger to feel the silk
of the dark | He is the statue of that liberty which
cannot be taken away | while he camps there on
the centerline the tweaker kid a street over

takes his dope Dodge Charger out for a spin to
rip the skin off the night | he turns off his headlights
for a kick | Chance is not a stupid man, he can
imagine many futures | He's not a pious man, either

but chooses this time to imagine he is lifted up
through the trees, watching the glow of his city
recede as he passes through a cloud toward the stars
anxious for reunion | so when he hears the roar

of the hemi approaching | he is content to let
the night decide whether he will sleep or not.

Tom Barlow is an Ohio writer of poetry, short stories and novels. His work has appeared in journals including The Muleskinner Journal, Ekphrastic Review, Voicemail Poetry, Hobart, Tenemos, Redivider, The North Dakota Quarterly, The New York Quarterly, The Modern Poetry Quarterly, and many more. See more at tombarlowauthor.com.