April slithered in and around the narrow windy path
(some might call a road)
in a 1995 Jeep with the shocks worn down,
feeling every bump
every rock,
luckily the brakes,
thank the gods, the brakes
allowed for some measure
of peace and insurance,
the kind that has to be paid for, but
insurance all the same
grasp the oh-shit-handle, and hang on,
just hang on over the cacophony under you
we’ll be off the mountain shortly
white-knuckling our way down and out and through