It was the season of car alarms. Things ached
to get out. Things crawled from one hole
to another. When brushed against,
things scurried into bloom.
Of the decade, thick as coleslaw,
I think we can say, better luck next time.
But who needs luck when what’s out there smells
like cherries and sunscreen, urine and Tic Tacs.
It was the season of visiting the mechanic.
Sugar crawled out from the fuel lines;
the wheels didn’t come off, they restructured.
Of the one-liner, I think we can say, get the fuck out.
That’s what the one-liner wants,
it wants to get out.