"Racecars are fun.
I never had racecars
when I was a kid," Sarah says,
grabbing me from around behind
the back of this chair, my sister's kitchen
(again). It's sunny outside, trees have shadows.
Snow melts. Sarah's pencil, sheet of paper, quick maps
to thrifts. Gonna go pick up some stuff, I guess. Maybe
more silky shirts? You find the best threads in Minneapolis.
Unusual records, too. The racecar is humming in the next room,
laps and laps, a gift from last year that no one ever played with,
finds new life now with adults and kids. Round and round. Mesmerizing,
hypnotic. "Cars are fun!" Sarah exclaims, then, "Shit! I tripped on the cord...
Got too excited." Sam the dog naps and farts. It's all too much. "Maybe you
could say: 'Racecars allow me to indulge my inner Robert Moses without
hurting anybody.'" She adds: "And they're fun!" Yesterday she took apart the
whole track, put it back together again, complex ramps, cloverleafs, a loop
de loop. Number 93 wasn't running too well, but we adjust the contact and it's
back. When i rowed college crew, the women's team was pejoratively referred
to as "slot racers." i never quite got the reference, it didn't make sense, and i don't think i laughed. But i might just choose to remember it like that.