i stole my dad's jeep

i stole my dad's jeep & drove
through the mountains.
the gas pedals were turtle shells 
& an angel goaded my forward.
dad used to tell me 
jeep's headlights
are either circles or squares.
his were squares cutting 
right angles in the dark as we searched
for my daughter ghost. 
he clutched a net. butterflies
broke open around the corner.
we gave up after years 
of travel. the fossils of a former life
muttering secret in my scalp.
i knew where i was going.
rusting sidewalk & turnip white moon.
i ate pudding from a cup holder
& drank from a plastic chalice.
no need for fire escapes
or purple, just four tires whirling
towards the newest hotel.
my hands used to be tools
& now they're vices. i grasp
the hem of every passing word.
who is going to name these streets
if not me & my chariot?
my dad is probably furious. 
he is probably laying down
in the garage looking up
at the ceiling where the bats 
make bets about our genders.
what is a father 
without his anger? what is
a child without the drive
to run away. i spent all my dimes
on this last firefly. i'm going
to keep him alive through winter
just you watch & then 
when summer comes he will be strong
& as big as a cat. i don't know how
i will return the stolen vehicle.
it might be better just
to consider that town
a no-go. what was so great
about that pie we used to sleep in anyway?
now i have grease under my finger nails.
i have a steering wheel
& a stirrup. if you could see me dad,
you might even be jealous. 

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