Rustless
I remember believing magic
might someday be used to save me.
I remember when the front seat
was a bench from door to door. The shifter
thumbed out from the steering column.
I remember when no cars were new,
or rustless, or waxed to a gloss; when mom
thumped the side of my soft haircut
with her fist; full force, and just as hard
the third time. There were medicines…
rancid broth in ghoulish black bottles,
no matter the malady. Now I sit bereaved
of the buoyancy that brought me
to adulthood. How the sight of big skies
through a child’s ignorance of the unseen,
poured into me a wondrous dread. Beyond
any horizon lurked quicksand brimming
with bodies, or dinosaurs…or a cliff
dropping to bottomless black. I no longer
wish for nothing more than to fall in,
but I miss not knowing all
that the years since have forced upon me.
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