when I take it to be inspected
I search for gas stations where they
just say beep the horn and don't ask me to
put it on the lift, exposing its soft
rusted underbelly. Inside is the record
of commuting: apple cores, a bag from
McDonald's, crushed Dunkin' Donuts cups,
a flashlight that doesn't work and one
that does, gas receipts blurred beyond
recognition. Finger tips numb, nose
hair frozen, I pump the accelerator
and turn the key. The battery cranks,
the engine gives 2 or 3 low groans and
starts. My God it starts. And unlike
my family in the house, the job I'm
headed towards, the poems in my briefcase,
the dreams I had last night, there is
no question about what makes sense.
White exhaust billowing from the tail pipe,
heater blowing, this car is going to
move me, it's going to take me places.
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