It was late afternoon and my thoughts were arid
when it struck me that I needed a new vehicle
to drive my thoughts far enough, fast enough
to the eyes and ears unknowingly awaiting them.
A meticulous consumer, I did my homework,
took my time, snapping reverse angle pictures
of me behind each and every wheel, feeling
the newness with each nostril and furrowed brow.
I tried out a traditional, up market Sonnet first
and – despite how many virginities had been
lost in its back seat – it still felt more like
my father’s than my own.
The Ode was no better, enveloping the driver in
thick clouds of vaulted purpose,
only came with AM radio and was impossible
to get parts and accessories for.
The 180° rotating side mirrors on the Sestina
were eye catching but seemed distracting
to the driver on today’s winding roads
and tempted oncoming traffic to admire itself.
And while the Dylan Thomas signature model Villanelle
looked like a joy to play with, I honestly didn’t know
what I’d do with it, was aghast by how much it consumed
and feared for its resale value.
Towards the back of the lot was an endless sea
of Haiku – three stroke wonders - which seemed cramped
and even the full-sized Tanka left me unconvinced
about how much leg room there really was.
With a blood orange evening tumbling ripe towards the Earth,
I bent to tie my shoes, scurried through a ditch
to Green Street and let the incandescent night fade in to
guide me, illuminating most of the street signs and
cheap hotels between "here" and wherever "there" was,
noting with interest one clap board place where “No”
was blacked out on its sign vacancy sign, its steps crooked
with time, a saxophone sighing through its open door.