Q
She sits in her old four door car
Jittery as a stick shift
All day every day
An old fashion woman
Smoking a pack of Camels
With all the windows rolled up
Goldfish
Staring out
Blowing bubbles in her dirty bowl
To the trolling park people
Who step from their slick driverless SUVs
Into the woods
With their dogs properly leashed
If only they knew
The poetry she was writing
Rhymes flicked away
To her spy ashtray
Who are they
Anyway?
No better than her
As she
Hides
From her lost job gonner kids and Fentanyl bibs
Q will show her the way
She ain’t so alone
With her hours of boredom
And Trump Putin and Xi
Khamenei
Saved like treasure
In her crumpled hands
She’s noting the march of our deaths
Every day
Out here in the open
Not the other way around
As I had intended for this poem
There’ll be a time
Soon
When she unleashes her door
And gets out
Breathes the same air
Armed by the unholy words
Take back what is yours.
Copyright © Robert Trezise Jr. | Year Posted 2022
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