I am a car wreck, and this feeling
comes along easily. I see smooth
granite, not knowing if it is granite
but feeling it is and studying its
perfection. I am a car wreck but
I disappear before the tow truck
gets to me. The light polls are
steady and stately watching over
people who are ugly, wearing
ugly clothes. I am a car wreck
and while the ugliness goes by
smoothly without question, I rip
my innards out and watch them
get rinsed down the lovely sewers.
I am a car wreck but does it
matter, while they eat their ice
cream and pat their flip-flops
on the mostly clean sidewalk?
I am a car wreck. It will pass but
not really. I wait for the other foot
that I am told not to wait for.
I am a car wreck. Won’t you
come clean me up before I
disappear, before I rot away?
stillfugue 