Heart like a glove compartment—
smashed, abandoned, still coveting
antiquated maps with folds and creases
like aches so familiar they’re congenital.
Journeys and dreams plotted in ink
or blood now choked with obstacles—
shards of glass, metal, rubber. Planned,
charted, and traced routes thwarted
by anachronisms, obsolete roads, dead
ends, changed names, bridges where
bridges weren’t before. Lost without
ever beginning. Halted, yet haunted
by the fatalities of junkyard love.
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Wow wowee! So *that's* how you write a lyrical poem! I was thrilled from the first line - "Heart like a glove compartment"
ReplyDeletewhy, yes.
"bridges where bridges weren't before. Lost without ever beginning."
So nice.
"like aches so familiar they're congenital"
ReplyDeleteAnother one to submit, my dear!
ReplyDelete