Avalanche

Since a quarter after midnight,
the boy with one black eye,
bags under both eyes,
and eyelids as heavy as
his conscience,
has sat under the spotlights
of the gas station,
staring.

His vintage Harley
(borrowed)
gurgles and gags
under the weight
of all he carries
on his slumped shoulders.
He has left the bike running,
trying to convince himself
that he is going somewhere.

He stares down the road
that carried him away
from everything,
his eyes groping through the darkness
for memories of:
          a pair of floral converse in step beside his army boots
          long nights of Call of Duty with the nerd from school
          and a spring night he spent alone at the bus stop
     to avoid the broken beer bottles at home.

It won’t be long till dawn now.
Missed calls have collected on his phone
like snow on the mountainside.
He is waiting for

the avalanche.