Suicide Hill

Boys racing downhill in a homemade soapbox car.

The excitement,

the anticipation,

of treasure finds

awaiting on a trip

to the town dump.

Carriage, stroller,

or wagon wheels,

lumber for chasses,

crates upon which

to rest one's rump.

Long hours spent

back at the barn

brainstorming and

building to the beat

of old farm tools.

Sawing, banging,

drilling, until done;

now accomplished,

dirty, sweaty, greasy,

soapbox making fools.

Two-feet-and-a-rope

steering mechanism,

stick lever rear wheel

braking apparatus

that no one would use.

We built’em to go

like hell, not to stop;

for the adrenaline

pumping possibilities

of pure physical abuse.

Across the farm,

we'd go, ropes in hand,

fresh built cars in tow,

onward past the pond,

to the ultimate thrill.

Winning was never

a measure of speed,

but of the number of

wrecks one survived

there, on Suicide Hill.

~g