poetry

white scar

For the hidden key-to-start an almost-empty car...

  I was eleven
    When you parked
        A beat-bus on my heart,
  For the hidden key-to-start
      An almost-empty car.
            Ford LTD; white scar;
  Stitched to upholstery-art
    In vinyl blue-bounty,
          An 8-track of Lionel
                  Half-ejected
        (Too-oft-selected).
  Dirt-dry county:
            The spin to sin
      Was Tahoka-far—
  Not a bar
        (You’ve a kid at home).
    Ne’er must you’ve been so alone
  As on that red-loam roam—
  Oh, I’ve come to know—
      To city-limit-sublime,
            Where, for a dollar,
              All had a rhyme again,
          And the crow had flown;
        For the ‘member-when
        Was past-due
            On rent—
      Just not for a BAC-amnesiac.
But that blue-headed boy
    Meant what he meant,
        When he gave up a joy
              For a rug-off-the-rack
        And a got-your-back
    I’ll-cover-you.


Previous Post:
    Poetry: Slant-Steady
        https://windstrewn.com/2020/07/14/slant-steady/

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