A crotch rocket muscles a GTO
and shoots into a scorched tar mirage
far from city-center splendor
where fountains spritz, arcing
then receding in pink-and-yellow play.
The rider leans hard, her hair
stringing in a wind rush;
her jean-tugged butterfly peeps
and spreads, a purple-green mosaic
scaling butternut skin.
Stump pines rag the low-rumble sky
great with rain, and a white light
splits heaven’s underbelly;
God’s fingers plume, fumbling
for Adam, but he’s not there.
Catherine Hamrick is a copywriter in the greater Atlanta area. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Blue Mountain Review, storySouth, Pine Mountain Sand & Gravel: Appalachian Witness, The Ekphrastic Review, Sparks of Calliope, Vita Brevis Poetry Magazine, Willows Wept Review, and elsewhere. Find her online at https://randomstoryteller.com.