Fake Names

• Dominic Rheinberger, Grade 11
• Poetry
• 2016

Crashing down into the torn, sticky back seat of an old Commodore,
The passenger window is smashed,
Replaced with half a garbage bag.
My chauffeur does not have a license, I don’t know his real name.
The thick stench of teenagers sucking on cigarettes,
The clanging of cans in the boot,
Liquor lays discarded at my feet.
We drive up a dirt road to the spot,
Invariably taking back routes.
My mate sitting shotgun pulls the handbrake and we go flying sideways,
Inching nearer to death. The thrill of being tantalisingly close,
That’s why we do it.
Arrived, we scale to the top of an old sawmill,
Tools in hand we work together to jacket the building with our names.
If my name lasts longer than I do,
Maybe then I will escape that death which I taunt so blithely.