The Whore in the Ford

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The Whore in the Ford

 

All her belongings piled to the back window.

Obstructing past visions of her abandoned sons in the rear view mirror.

Her flea market on wheels, ready for unloading at the next man’s place.

The many men she took up with, always ended the same;

With payment of a hotel bill, or an empty driveway to park awhile.

The many holes in walls left behind, from bashing heads,

Or poundings fists.

She left for others to plaster the walls in her now vacated rooms.

 

Because they let love start an engine.

Her emotions were a road hazard.

The dump truck and turning barrel of mortar

Even as the windshield took stones, and chips of concrete,

You thought you could maneuver.

 

We are all lonesome on our journey,

Give her comfort in the passenger seat,

Driving intoxicated.

But drivers are replaceable at her next rest stop.

Those roadside tables selling used goods,

Litter the windows panes speeding on the highway.

 

 After she had sucked the air out, the tires are refilled.

The windshield is replaced and vision unimpaired.

Her smile was a pothole that cannot be filled,

Never any tar of caring once through with her ride.

 

It goes on.

 

She gets behind the wheel of her Ford.

Belongings piled to the back window,

Glancing the rearview mirror, seeing her sons,

Until ghosts mingled with dust raised acceleration,

And a radio country song

Drowns the voices she hears calling, “mom.”

 

 

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Categories: Life, People, Poetry

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