yellow car in dry grass: a study

brown tuft dry grass woven into cracked treads,
fights for gas station air
holds its hand on flat tire plugs, needs all the 
oxygen it can breathe
attendant over inflated while he was busy watching
one street walker babe
she charges by the hour what he makes in
a day, she doesn’t like dirty hands,
but she likes the yellow car, smells the money,
smells the three piece suit
dried cleaned recently by the wife, the little
boy sits at wooden desk
the teacher’s wife has a day job, likes to
tease with the high skirt,
tease with the high heels, and a low neck 
sweater, gets back home before 
the ding dong bell;
the little boy asks about brown tuft dry grass
in a library picture book
about a stone slag fence wall
about an abandoned house,
now empty of mice, empty of two who
sweated under unclean sheets
completely disappeared like gum hidden
underneath wooden school desks
left behind a yellow car in dry grass, 
left behind air in tires
but not left behind a gas station attendant
who one day followed
not sits in a mental institution wearing a 
low neck straight jacket
impatiently, like a school toddler sits in
a pew at a church wedding
while his mother marries a school teacher,
the boy wonders of gray stone and yellow
steel that he once saw 
in a library picture book…
Copyright © 04/19/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®

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