Day 58 of 100 Poems/100 Days


In the trunk,
rolling in the back,
matches out,
just listening to the night.

The Cadillac stalls,
of course,
I’m stuck,
I connect two thoughts,
like two bones to hold up.

The trunk opens,
Old Man flashing his light,
says: “Boy, your forecast is grim,
the clouds low, a storm gaining.”

I smile back,
and say, “Old Man, I know,
kill me, that’s fine,
because underneath the sea,
I’ll find you,
and I will remind you of this,
of you stuffing me in this trunk,
driving us through the dark,
I’ll hide you in my treehouse,
firmly held between my two thoughts.


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