It wasn’t about justice
Or about the fact
I felt
I deserved
A little of what she had.

It wasn’t about anger
Or vengeance.

Or because my car
Never starts.

Or the crack in the windshield.

Or because pools of dust
Collect in rusted impressions
Of my 1986 Toyota Celica.
It wasn’t
Because
I thought
She hadn’t worked for what she had.
Or because
I haven’t
Stopped working
Since 14.

I was 26
She must have been 18.
Designer shirt.
Designer shoes.
And a car that goes
from 0 to 70
in 25 mile per hour
School zones.

Maybe it was that silver paint-
Looked like a lottery ticket
Scratch-off.
Silver and shiny.
Like those coins my grandmother
Kept until she died.

Mercedes Benz,
Brand new
Never saw another like it
…or was it “BMW”?

Etched in
Market decoy emblem.
Those vehicles,
Like big,
Moving,
Painted Gods.
Parked
Row after row;
Neat little patterns of profit
And display.

I ran my key along the pinstripe.
From the bumper to the rear
Left a deep gouge
That ran
All
The
Way
Down.

Like the dry
River beds
Outside of town
That remind me
So much of
Endless drought.