Читать книгу Wicked Enchantment - Wanda Coleman - Страница 16

can’t let go of it. to live is to drive. to have it function

smooth, flawless. to rise with morning and have it start

i pray to the mechanic for heat again and air conditioning

when i meet people i used to know i’m glad to see them until

i remember what i’m driving and am afraid they’ll go outside and

see me climb into that struggle buggy and laugh deep long loud

i’ve become very proficient at keeping my car running. i

visit service stations and repair shops often which is why

i haven’t a coat to wear or nice clothes or enough money each

month to pay the rent. i don’t like my car to be dirty. i spend

saturday mornings scrubbing it down. i’ve promised it a new bumper

and a paint job. luckily this year i was able to pay registration

i dream that my car is transformed into a stylish

convertible and i’m riding along happily beneath sun glasses

the desert wind kissing my face my man beside me. we smile

we are very beautiful. sometimes the dreams become nightmares

i’m careening into an intersection the kids in the back seat scream

“mama!” i mash down on the brake. the pedal goes to the floor

i have frequent fantasies about running over people i don’t like

with my car

my car’s an absolute necessity in this city of cars where

you come to know people best by how they maneuver on the freeway

make lane changes or handle off-ramps. i’ve promised myself

i will one day own a luxury model. it’ll be something

i can leave my children. till then i’m on spark plugs and lug nuts

keeping the one i have mobile. i live for it. can’t let go of it

to drive is to live