A Car Is A Car, Is A Car
Little did I know,
after my vehicle was
hit at an intersection
that the loss of a car
faithful twenty-seven years
would echo if not equate
other voids, a voice,
a touch, a car is a car,
is a car, even if it had
breathed such few miles
with so much left to discover,
but a car is only a car
after all, though it espoused
my shape like a lover's
embrace, welcomed my friends,
my pets, my struggles,
hopes, and sorrows.
Valentine’s Day
He pulled his
car to the top of the driveway, covered with snow. He’d driven up this steep hill so often he
could do it with eyes closed. He was
eager to ease the tension of the past weeks.
Her heart leapt when she opened the kitchen door.
There he stood,
seductive, his dark eyes framing the long-stemmed red rose he held in his hand:
“Happy Valentine’s Day!” he said, smiling. This rose is perfect, she thought,
nested delicately in baby’s breath and wrapped in glossy paper with red strips
of silk ribbon.
“Let’s have a
drink,” she offered. “I can’t stay
now. I’ll call you later. We’ll go out to celebrate,” he said as he
kissed her on the cheek. Don’t walk me
out; it’s terribly cold today. See
you.”
As he was
starting the engine, the cat meowed to come in.
She opened the kitchen door long enough to glance into the back seat
where three long-stemmed red roses rested, neatly wrapped and ready to go.
First published
by Parting Gifts
