Rage Road

I live on Rage Road.
I sit in my little kitchen,
coffee percolating.
Scent, familiar, overwhelmingly so.
I would never dare to drink it.
It’s much too hot.
It just sits on the little kitchen table.
I like to have it near.
I grow the beans myself—on Rage Road.
There is a volcano at the end of the street
where Rage Road meets Bitter Boulevard.
It explodes quite often.
Funny thing is, it never comes into my little house.
It just rolls by on the street outside
wiping away everything in its path.
It doesn’t let anything grow—not for long.
My windows are black with ash or maybe soot.
But I don’t mind there’s nothing I need to see.
I know every nook and cranny of Rage Road.
There is a broken dam beside my little house on Rage Road.
It’s gotten so I keep a diver’s mask beside my little coffeepot.
I’m nothing if not prepared.
But I don’t mind the invasion of the water.
It keeps things clean.
It keeps things interesting.
I never see my neighbors on Rage Road but I know they’re there.
Somewhere out there.
They have to be.
I won’t believe I’m here alone.
So I sit in my little house
touching the mug of coffee that’s too hot to drink,
listening to the molten rock roll by
and waiting for the waters to rush in.
Life is complex on Rage Road.
But I know it well.
And so I stay.


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