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.