Thursday, May 31, 2012

Who are you?

Her cars talked to one another
Threw parties
Traded complements
Argued and
Were really dolls with wheels
She was clearly a girl
His cars act the very same way
He must be gay
I painstakingly invent little miniature people
Who drive the cars out of the parking garage
Across the railroad tracks
To the park to meet friends for a for a picnic
To the outskirts of town at night for a clandestine exchange of money for something less than legal
To the police station to engage in a confrontation with the police chief over the allotment of resources and the pace of the evacuation in the face of a hurricane scheduled for landfall in less than twenty four hours and
To the drag strip on the outskirts of town where the drivers get into groups based on the age and make of their car, play their music loud, try hard to impress the ladies, and haggle over who will race tonight and whether they will be racing for pinks
I’m not a girl
I’m not gay
I am clearly a stay at home dad with a law degree who has published his own book of poetry and grew up in a loving home in Flint, the birthplace of GM

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