While I was setting up my booth in Menlo Park, outside Walgreens, I briefly glanced a young lady with dyed hair driving away her beat-to-hell Civic – or something similar. This inspired the following poem.
are eighteen trying to look twenty-one.
is twenty-two wishing she were three.
Before that rear-end crump
you don’t even know about,
wishing she were younger than twelve or fifteen
when replacement panels started being transplanted
regardless of color
and the angry tire-kickings, followed by
days at the mechanic began
and her paint peeled in the sun.
are eighteen with multi-colored dyed hair
thinks you had done to match her.
is your first car,
a gift that nevertheless came
with the responsibility of complete care
for another individual.
takes you to work, knowing
this is how the two of you
buy gas, insurance, pay
mounting mechanic bills.
View original post 155 more words