Wednesday, July 21, 2004
My car died today.
I spent 150 dollars on it in the last three days.
And it died anyways.
I want us to be friends.
Maybe my car just wants me to pull the plug.
I can't do that.
I love that car.
More accurately . . .
I can't afford not to love that car.
I swore at it today.
I swore a lot today.
And today was my youngest brother's birthday.
I will not exist for three days.
Then,
Sara-Lynn and Moey, and Dan, will see me.
Then I will not exist for a much longer period of time.
Much longer . . .
If I write prose line by line
can I call it a poem?
This would be one of those poems
Modern,
but conservative.
Like a good church.
Where people talk to each other and wear nice things and date sometimes.
Then go home.
Maybe church should be home.
