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| Mailbox in Flowers, Kasharp, Wikimedia |
I said, "My love is like a
'68 station wagon, inefficient and invulnerable,
a plower of mailboxes, a pet-killer,
There’s poodle-fur in my tires
So come, drive with me."
You said, "Love is not funny.
And you drive too fast,"
as we cruised to your house,
as I opened the passenger door,
as we walked you to the gate.
I pleaded for you to travel, to take any risk.
“Put dents in everything!
Your car, my car, any person, any object!
Travel the reaches of the globe
and know that I will be there for you.”
You should have run off with my heart.
Oh, I would have tended your goldfish
as a sign of my love for you;
I would have worn your cat on my shoulder,
cherished lost strands of your hair,
never vacuumed your couch,
if only you had let me get broken-hearted.
You could have left your tire tracks all over my life
but you never took the wheel,
not for me, not for anybody,
not even yourself.
I turned the corner a little slower tonight
as I drove past your house.
There, I saw your Volvo in the driveway,
wondered if you ever leave the garage.
It was a late night, full of bleary-eyed
self-pity, and I raged at
the rust in my body, the oil like curdled milk,
all the missed chances of my life.
And now I must apologize.
Please understand, it was with love
and also with slight near-sightedness
that I ran over your mailbox.
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