Liesel

She limps through the gas station and shutters beside the air pump,

Wheezing like an emphysemic old woman who can’t give up her smokes.

I leave her running, this van, this wagon, this boat, this ancient

Space rocket that was damaged, busted, fractured, and blown apart

On her way back through the atmosphere. Some clown with greasy,

Black fingers and an unwashed t-shirt thought he could put her back

Together again. He probably spent twenty bucks and used up all

Of his duct tape. Man, that’s a few thousand dollars I’d like to have

Tossed back my way. Here I am, trying to decide if the forced air

Is actually going into that flat tire, the one on the right and in the front.

Flat, empty, and deflated, like the heart of joy I once held for this car.

This black wheel of rubber won’t stay packed with pressure. Its breath

Comes screaming out when I fly down the highway, wailing

Like a heartbroken woman in a pale dress walking the deserted moors

Of an English countryside. I wonder if she’s me, or if I’m the lover,

Driving the damsel to the edge of lunacy before disposing of her.