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An Ode to the Guy Who Ranched My Car
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The Pixie Dust An Ode to the Guy Who Ranched My Car
Apartment living, we coexist in communes.
Living side by side like boxed in sardines
We stomp on each-other’s silence.
We know more than we would like
About each other’s sex lives.
Your crappy Toyota with taped up wheel-wells
Lays dormant at the front of the lot,
Itching to be the silver Focus out back
Where we currently reside.
No chain linked fences define our territory.
Your inconvenience is to my ignorance,
And my ignorance was your bliss.
Ranch dressing carelessly thrown out
Of your second story apartment
Covers my innocuous Ford Focus.
A spotted lion covered in calories,
You’ve upset the predator.
To your relief, I was nowhere in sight
Until I went to my Focus later that night.
Closing the door to your stage that you stomp
Across every night,
I unanticipatedly discover your art.
So gorgeous, it was!
A mass murder scene featuring the condiment
Ranch like the blood of an innocent man after a shot
To the head where he stand waiting
For his mother to pick up the phone,
To tell Momma that he’ll be back home,
But never actually sees home again.
Like a movie bound to end in tragedy where
We, as the audience, stand mouth agape
Waiting for the man to pull back the curtain
And the violin screeching to get louder.
A knife to the gut
And a scream to raise hair faster than hands in
A class room where everyone knows the answer.
Here’s your extra credit my dear friend.
To the Man who Ranched my Car, I ask,
“Why did you peer out of the window?”
You could have gotten away with it,
But you watched me as I stood behind my car,
Our eyes met for only an instant, and I knew
It was hate at first ranching.
You smile in your sleep knowing that I know,
And your ignorance is my bliss because
Your crappy Toyota sleeps soundly at night
Undisturbed by the ketchup in my fist,
And the smile on my face
Behind the window I kept closed
Below the stage that you stomped across
To become the victim to your own play.
