Buick

~ Buick ~

 

 

The Buick across the street,

Shining back at me mercilessly,

Gleaming through the fence as it stares-

Staring in a malicious Snape-sparkle,

I don’t understand what I did,

To make the black polish pinpoint me-

 

Perhaps it isn’t really staring at me,

Because it sits on its four weeks fatly,

Winking up at all the passers,

Who go their merry way past it.

Perhaps it is very clever,

After all, it is a Buick- I think,

And- maybe- just perhaps-

There is nothing left of the car,

Save for the nonchalant way it talks,

To everyone that passes,

The gleaming polish that it uses,

To intimidate babes in strollers,

And dogs that want something to bark at.

 

Maybe this is because there is nothing left,

Of the poor car,

On the interior.

Perhaps- perhaps it is all gleam,

And it feels that need to intimidate me,

Because . . .

The interior is demolished.

 

That must be the reason for this.