Another Move.
Jingles on the radio;
old Rick Astley takes over, promises not to give me up.
Periwinkle- blue leather wraps me in a nostalgic smile:
Eyes shielded from the cornflower sun
notice surreal images dance in the chrome of the bumper.
Ready to ride in the Wolsey/vanden plas; it’s
silver name immortalized in shiny metal letters
standing proud against an olive green of
finely buffed perfection.
Nearby, a loose skinned hand; mottled with liver spots;
stitched across stretched skin, presses down the polished handle
Easing myself through the rear door,
reclining on the back seat
that stretches out before me.
Each panel decorated with red cotton stitches.
Softly the door clunks shut behind.
Discussing me; the two oblivious adults in front
turn the volume up, their conversation still audible, though only just.
Talk of foster parents, adoption; a better life for the poor kid
Don’t they know I’m here, I’m not deaf?
Fingering a worn marble in my pant’s pocket.
Trying so hard not to cry; I turn my face, let my cheek press against
the cold smoothness of the glass and expel a silent sob.
Jingles on the radio;
old Rick Astley takes over, promises not to give me up.
Periwinkle- blue leather wraps me in a nostalgic smile:
Eyes shielded from the cornflower sun
notice surreal images dance in the chrome of the bumper.
Ready to ride in the Wolsey/vanden plas; it’s
silver name immortalized in shiny metal letters
standing proud against an olive green of
finely buffed perfection.
Nearby, a loose skinned hand; mottled with liver spots;
stitched across stretched skin, presses down the polished handle
Easing myself through the rear door,
reclining on the back seat
that stretches out before me.
Each panel decorated with red cotton stitches.
Softly the door clunks shut behind.
Discussing me; the two oblivious adults in front
turn the volume up, their conversation still audible, though only just.
Talk of foster parents, adoption; a better life for the poor kid
Don’t they know I’m here, I’m not deaf?
Fingering a worn marble in my pant’s pocket.
Trying so hard not to cry; I turn my face, let my cheek press against
the cold smoothness of the glass and expel a silent sob.