That Blue Car
Pressed,
by the city heat
in that blue car,
permanently parked under embers of sunlight
until the moon
Breaks and swells in the sky,
easing the metal. Making cracks in the colour
and breaking the leather.
Aged by fair weather
and fairly harsh wear.
It smells like…
old and laughs and memories,
sometimes like tears and cries and photographs.
And it feels like them too.
On my skin and pressed against my back,
Grains of wishes and wants that now are dead.
How far did you drive before you could see,
The old concrete block that
crushed your resolve
that mangled and
twisted you,
buried you here?
That caught you
in pen
immortalised you?
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