God bless cars with red cellophane tape over brake lights,
        padlocks for trunk locks, different color doors, lumber for bumpers,

        windshields zigzag fractals those who outlive lightning wear
        everywhere under skin, nearly insignia, tributary maps.

        Keep them distant from auto impound's concertina wire,
        corkscrewed as cartoon pigs' tails or paper streamers from exploding

        party favors. Leave their drivers untroubled. When we follow
        open-frame trucks with several green, missile-size bottles

        upright and wobbling, extinguish our cigarettes, dispel all fear
        and static electricity. Let us clearly see the diamond-shaped flammable

        symbol, its twist of white lines a burning-bush flicker, its number
        3 religious, as promise to spare us while climbing

        hills behind dump trucks of jostling rubble and rebar
        or vehicle carriers stacked with those spectacular wrecks.


Copyright © Aaron Anstett, 2005. All Rights Reserved.