11-2-10, through wet lashes

The tires twist with no traction
and we're racing in the rain,
acid devouring our organs
as we fear the checkered flag.
It's funny to think of hope
like a tangible device;
as pistons, pumping furiously
to power the inevitable wreck.
We clutch to expectations
but collide with reality,
the sharp crack of our arrival
ringing in dead ears.