3/14

in the ghost car city

i am driving through 
a river of greying milk. 
the snow is not snow at all
but a colony of perfect spiders.
the park lots stretch far & wide
like pastures. i feed my car
handfuls of lockets.
she purs & whirls & sputters.
i met a demon underneath 
the bridge & he told me
if i grind my bones into dust
& feed the birds i will be
someday a god. i did as he said
over over again. the birds
feasted. take what you can get
or at least that's what
my father always said.
a neon sign says, "24/7"
& i say, "so am i."
a ghost car pulls up & honks 
asking for me to climb aboard.
i have something to live for
or at least that's what
i tell my bank account 
in the depth of night
when i check to make sure
i am still alive. a pipe breaks
& the basement is converted 
into an aquarium. my rent goes up
because now we get the pleasure
of looking at sharks. 
the ghost cars dance 
with one another. circles 
& the brightest headlights.
of course i want to be taken.
extracted from my life
like a blue potato. instead
the potential danger keeps me rooted.
i ask one car, "would you have my home
by midnight?" the car laughs
& the crows laugh & the city laughs.
there is no midnight.
not for us.

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