car talk.

Poetry tends to come to me at the most inconvenient of times. Take what you will of this. Tomorrow I probably will find something wrong with it.


And I’m sitting in my car.

Yes, before I know it, I’m sitting here.

In my car.

Engine off.

Door open.
Just enough to blanket the dead silence from within
By allowing a couple of finches to share their comments on the cheek of the moon.
"My, how he’s drawing attention to his figure tonight."

I am alone now.
I am alone now.

And I am sitting in my car.
And I can finally hear it:

The steady sound of my heartbeat in perfect rhythm to the pace of his tread.

And before I know it,

I’m still sitting here.

In my car

Realizing that has to mean something.