70 year old traffic

i honk the horn, it is silent
the whippoorwill is silent
all about are rusting
and whatever can be done
will not stop the rusting,
it is you time and small rain.

i want aging wheels to turn
and it is you air
that will not allow it,
up in trees and sky
and whatever it is you do,
no one really knows where you are.

here is the metal roof and doors
and dashboard;
springs pushed up through seats
where passengers sat on
road trips; faces remembered
on brownie cameras.

i sit, keeping junkyard relics behind
me from budging an inch
moving about as fast as dead
batteries and headlights
lying on the ground, lying
in old tire treads.

yet, there is the wonder of stars
each night, and of
fireflies lighting up all radio
tubes and big band songs,
and of keychains with a
sweetheart’s photo being held.

i want no world where i can’t
hold a memory
and it once was sitting inside me,
not sprayed on with coats
of a paint, but rather were the ones
who enjoyed the ride.

Copyright © 03/19/2015 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®

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The color of crayons

Was it a planetary influence,
or my own 
behavior?
i evaded the question
somehow
having reached down underneath
my bed
and not having found
them,
i sat up scratching
my scalp
through mussed hair
searched in my closet, in my
dresser draws,
threw in, “Hey, mom, have you
seen them?”
for good measure.

Looked out the front door, what
was that on my
my dad’s 
car’s dashboard?
I ran out into sweltering
heat,
jumped over spoked obstacles
peered through curved 
glass,
there they were
“confusion now, the crayons
masterpiece”
the dashboard looked like 
our dining room table
with multi-colored 
tablecloth,
cleaned them up the best
i could
heard my dad’s voice,
“Let’s go for 
a ride!”

Gee, dad, your car looks great!
i stated while snapping in 
my seat belt,
he said, “Thanks!” as he turned 
the A/C on high…
blizzard blue, mellow yellow
and other 
assorted colors had melted 
into the vents,
i turned up the radio to quiet
the smell
one tattered piece of 
crayon paper
then another, flitted into
his lap
my dad’s speech nearly
burst my ears,
i got grounded for
a week.

 

Copyright © 04/01/2014 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®

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