on a slight embankment
John Reinhart
across the street,
has parked his Trans Am
between juniper bushes
and elm trees, dandelions
and butterflies paint
a scene -
Wordsworth
meets Black Sabbath
spring has obscured
his intentions – despite
plenty of water,
the car refuses
to blossom
Poet's Notes: Another
neighbor from down the way, though he does not speak verbally, makes abundantly
clear through gesture how he feels about this car belonging to our mutual
neighbor, one of two automotive islands. As tiny houses are bought, leveled,
and lots filled with rectangles devoid of the soul infused in the ramshackle
additions and improvements and repairs in most of the buildings hereabouts,
there are still holdouts in the working class digs I call home. Though the
Trans Am is not my preferred view out the dining room window, it is a
reassuring reminder that spring has only just begun.
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