She was a little Chinese girl from the back of the bar—
Who slapped me on the back as my tears touched the tar,
I held out a worn-out picture that was closely far—
And I starred at the Cadillac, purple, the old worn out car
Had stood with me through all and all and finally it had crossed the bar—
To be with the whoever the "god" of cars was, living afar.
"Mister, you're so sad and lame,
Who cries for a car that doesn't even look the same?"
I turned to her in a happy rage like an ember in december trying to spark a weakened flame
And I smiled sadly, "she was such a dame!".
She spun flippantly, laughing at my play on words and said, " Mister, you're so dumb and lame lame lame..
"What's your name?"
Wiping my sad sneakers on the asphalt I replied,
"Anonymous" but she had disappeared.
It was time again taunting me—
And I silently laughed at how fast somebody can become a nobody.
YOU ARE READING
A 100 For My Better Half
Poetry"Summer and warmth spilled from her eyes, Breaking my shell like metal on ice, I tried to ignore, yet I couldn't excise- The love in me that she enticed". Praise Frank This is an anthology to and for one who unconsciously opened a gate which was shu...
