by David LaBounty
the car came in, a Buick
from ’89, and the brake
pedal was going to the
floor and there were
leaks everywhere, like
so much automotive
stigmata, so we ripped
the tires off and
the back brakes
crumbled at our feet
and the kid driving
the car was full of
piercings and homemade
tattoos and said the car
only cost two hundred
bucks and that he
was going to call
a junkyard to haul it
away because it would
take a grand to make
the car safe and right.
he left, the car was
pushed out and it
sat for a day
until he came to clean
it out, leaving
the car empty save
a little notebook
on the cigarette
burned front seat
and I couldn’t help
but flip through it
after he left as it
was full of notes like
postal exam on Thursday,
Applebees Tuesday, first interview
Wal-Mart, Bob, second interview Monday
and I had to wonder why
he left the notebook
behind, as it seemed
to contain important
details of hope
but then I
realized why he left
it behind,
because in this,
the Motor City,
you’ve got to have wheels
to get a job.
Opium Poetry Blogzine 