It wasn’t about innocence
Or the Fact
I felt
I didn’t deserve
A little
Of what I got.
It wasn’t about anger
Or vengeance
Or because
I have a car
That starts.
Or because
I was at a bar
In a Toyota mini van
with two child car seats
perched
Between the arm rests
Was it about
The Fact
You felt
I hadn’t
Worked
For what I had?
Or Maybe it was
That space shuttle window
Looked
Like a bubble
that needed to be popped
That glossy tinted glass
Reflected Your image
As You chucked
That giant rock.
Must’ve took
so much effort
And force
Must of used
Both hands
And a running start
To have landed
Where it did
On the floorboard
Between
My front seats
An Explosion of tiny
Shattered
Chrystal Karma
Like shards of black diamonds
Dipping like water
All
The
Way
Down
To the blacktop.
Like those
Rainy nights
When all
There is to do
Is take cover
And watch it fall
The Parking Lot
*Originally Published July 13, 2008
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.