Without Wheels You're Nowhere
Without Wheels You're Nowhere
The car died. Well, it was 77 in dog years. We're thinking of a hybrid--not quite the kind of hybrid in the drawing, though. Or in this poem, either:
Fast Car
We were forever trying to lose ourselves.
The top was down, radio blasting,
we weren’t worrying about rogue stones or Bell’s palsy,
that whole catalogue of woe.
On a road where every turn was hairpin, delinquent
notes began to follow lyrics off cliffs, crashing
through chords that swelled like strings or another tumor.
Let’s chase the sun out of its sac,your voice jittered above the wheel. It was your song, so I didn’t try to stop you, though I knew
where you were headed
and the momentum it would take to get there.
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Evie Shockley says:
My car is 105 in dog years,
My car is 105 in dog years, and though she hasn't quite died, I am about to move toward a hybrid myself...
Thanks for the welcome comment on my blog, Cheryl! It's good to be a part of a new community of poets. I'll look forward to checking out your work in the days to come.