Around here it’s still beer and, of course, the time of year
whole carloads crowded loud with music, speeding along
end the night in a number of ways: get pulled over, police
blue lights flashing, sirens blurring, the driver carted off and
parents called, something they’ll recall, joke about later; or
they crash somewhere, head-on, into a stray bridge abutment
an oak tree by the side of the road, oncoming traffic, or even
upside-down in a river, the ambulance and police, parents and
survivors create a haunting scene; or other nights they come out
okay in the end, wake late the next day, recall only parts of what
went on, becomes a joke of sorts, something to brag about, part
of their legend, their mythology; around here it’s still mostly beer
and the chances we take being young; I remember waking late
wondering where I left the car, remember police cars out front
and trying to explain what we did, trying to make it sound better
than it was, and I remember another time the police at the door
to say my brother ended his night, his life head-on into oncoming
traffic, at least he was alone that time, a scene I never saw but still
imagine, sirens, red and blue lights flashing, the truck he hit, and his
body lit up, crushed; my brother on the road, forever underage.  

-- J. K. Durick