I want to start the story 
goes, but then the story
stops. I want to say you

borrowed Chekhov’s gun,
but it was just American,
a dumb Colt bucking in

your hand, neither of you
old enough to know
better, both ready to run.

Speed is ignorant of direction,
says the physics text.
The part I love about

the story that I hate is
when it seems you still
believe in what comes

next, just not for you,
is when, after you
drink a beer and before

you, as they say, do 
yourself in, meaning out
of this world worth

saving, you pause
to place the can
in the recycling bin.
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