Writing is smooth,
unblemished:
the new car on the lot.
Vignette base coat,
glossy novel finish.
But the salesman insists,
scratching his bristly chin,
“No, no. Not right,”
and he pushes you along
to the back lot.
It’s then you see Poetry
(the car lot owner’s
just dying for someone
to take the thing home and
read it over, and Salesman
knows that will strike up
a raise).
Poetry is broken:
used junker, high mileage.
Dented by commas
and line breaks,
engulfing the audience
in angst.
Salesman smiles and nods,
gesturing like Vanna White;
just a bunch of pretty words
to make the sale
or hide the meaning.
Unexpectedly, your wallet
is empty. Not sure why you
bought it in the first place,
you get in and sit down.
As you grope for the
right explanation, you
come across the answer,
caught somewhere between
the seat cushions and belt buckle.
And suddenly you don’t recall the seller
mentioning anything about a
certain dead mouse that has
strategically placed itself
in your new car.
