By Bry White
A car is a kind of whale when you have no money. Ecstatic sugar high race car fun When flush Job at the bar Fell away the same day the drugs melted My sadness Busted and broken used up and orange red light panel Sneaking around in IL With OR plates from five years ago. Marked. Ice blast silver talisman turbo charged Aftermarket cabin filter chocked full of June bugs Washed by Mother’s rain There you sit lot hot Invisible for a few hours. Island corner. Three hour tours find their way and mourn you. Make eye contact At a funeral, They know and you know You are hopeless. Soon it will fall away Break down unfixable flat no gas money Nothing left but foot power Sell it for a weekend in a MOTEL. Long walk, Maybe FL Before winter. See about that job at that bar. Keep some pants clean In a grocery bag. Start over sticker shock new.
Bry White lives in the woods of Southern Illinois. He occasionally emerges for staff meetings, dog food, or really good people food. He is currently working on his second book and runs a small literary website in his spare time. You can find him at rudderlessmarinerpoetry.com