DreamTime Car Lot
The car lot on Rt. 50 did not exist,
At least not the way I saw it ---
Part "Used Cars," part junkyard,
A line of rough and rusty old Fords,
Boxy two- and four-doors from the
year I was born
Or thereabouts,
Lined neatly on the oily, gravel-blacktop
mix
Of the lot, four or maybe six of
them,
Begging some hand to turn the ignition
---
Did they run? --- Drive them home,
Offer them fresh oil, cleaning,
paint, and life.
And I looked on them with lust;
I wanted them,
One of them or all of them,
For mine,
Though my hand remains unsteady
with a wrench
And the paint I apply drips and
runs unevenly
And I know not how to take torn
upholstery,
Stinking with the smell of age and
weather,
And imbue it with the new-off-the-lot
scent.
I know none of these things,
Only the hollow shell of my desires.
11-30-99
