By the Dump

West Gulf to Lake Highway, 2009

 

A medallion my mother gave me when I was sixteen,

which hung from the rearview mirror, is now missing

somewhere within the guts of my car—I sit shaking

by the shoulder of my wreck, waiting for my dad to

come help pick pieces of my life from the ground—I

hold a bleeding ear and smoke a slightly bent cigarette,

as cars drive on and stare at the tragedy that was:

Honda Civic vs. flat-bed truck.

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