*My father gifted me his 1987 Buick Electra with red velvet interior for my 20th birthday. I have never loved a car more. It seated 9 people and had the best speakers I’ve ever heard. Perhaps it was the velvet cushioning the notes as they left those speakers. It had an ashtray and lighter, and I put elegant high quality band stickers in strategic places. I’d often take it on night rides with one of my closest girlfriends at the time. I’d pick her up, she’d light up and we’d go flying through the streets. 10:15 Saturday Night by The Cure became an anthem to our Saturday outings, of course. Ah, to be young and stupid in a small town again. No, I’m glad it’s over—Now, I relish my drives in my 2010 Ford Focus to the post office with my husband. It’s a wonderful life.
Suburbia yells fast cars,
slow men,
it drags out a cigarette for miles,
speed bumps turned roller coasters on Francisquito Avenue—
corner stores know your brand, we live on a tab—we drip with cheap perfume and cheaper dramas
of boys who should be men
and women who should be dead
Parked cars in K-Marts,
belly full of smoke and
water— ice-cold
helps the
drip drip drip drip drip
sunrise at stop signs glitters on our ashen skin
