|
|
|
You were just a boy at our courthouse wedding, doing vodka shots in the backseat with my sister, I a girl wishing for an accident, just a dented fender, enough damage to put off the vows for another day. Or year. What the hell were we thinking? The mortgage isn't paying its monthly coupons. The driveway doesn't empty itself of snow. Even the cat's fur won't grow inward to avert shedding. When your job as a business professor takes you to conferences to one of the coasts, I'm happy as a pig in shit. What the hell am I thinking? I could tear up those coupons, toss them on that snowy driveway, pack the cat tightly, and haul ass to the opposite coast in a car with a fender shiny and smooth and perfect enough to resist weathering of any kind. (To copy or translate this poem, please contact its author) TRANSLATOR and ILLUSTRATOR WANTED FOR THIS PAGE
|
| THANK YOU FOR READING |
 |
SubscribeUnsubscribe |
