Cleaning Out
So, this year I thought I’d clean her car;
no mean undertaking, believe
me,
scrubbing hard at that
matted shag pile
flicking those ancient rocks
in your eye
because you’re squatting far
too near the pan.
Oh, it’s down by the
seaside sifting sand,
includes grease is the
word, banana splits,
and 12 other of your greatest
grits.
Legs sticking straight out
the driver’s side,
it shifts gearstick in
your racing mind,
soon becomes a matter of fixed
pride.
You started with obstinate
resentment,
end by thinking some
unique present
this will be. Clobber in
every orifice,
glove compartments packed
with trash,
give her space; she’ll
fill it, still wants more,
split seams and look at
the bulging garage door.
Not as if it’s one of
those grand ones, anyway,
59, just a spit before that big six-oh,
probably only chalked up by grim
greeters,
card makers and profit
seekers,
where every day’s some
cause for celebration,
the unguent of this
vacant nation.
And look, if you barely
walk and monosyllables
pass for talk, this is
more than just a great deal,
she can always bitch about how it made her feel.
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