Susan was a connoisseur
of downhill racing.
After the trigger got pulled,
she let loose,
diving down Beach Hill Road.
Wild Susan flew
along tin foil guardrails
lining the steepest grade.
If she surrendered her footing
the barrier would not hold.
She’d roll down the brushy slope,
somersault onto sand,
and slide under the waves.
The surface of Beach Hill
was, technically, paved –
but pockmarks appeared like islands
seeking contact with skin.
Superstar Susan leapt
over the pits, in her white leather
shelltoes with wings.
You can’t keep from tripping forever
taunted the gravelly holes.
But Susan got off
on her Beach Hill jaunt.
She believed the mystique
of a climb from shore to the peak
would never wear down
like knees do and hips
and the soles of her shoes.
Daring Susan specialized
in risk. She blew past
the bottom of Beach Hill Road
in record time, so far ahead
that she missed the sign
on the rusted-out
chain link fence:
Danger Keep Off.
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