By Sonam Kaloti, Arts Editor
The police can’t arrest me because I could be lying.
It’s just a poem, after
all. Besides: no one has died yet, and no one is dying
(literal, or of laughter).
I enjoy speeding and closing my eyes—freedom high wheel
steering on its own. I’ve thrown
out morals of right and wrong. Frankly, I just want to feel
something. Grazing a street cone,
flying death wish on Patullo. Sure, I could be lying
No one’s died. I wasn’t trying.
