The Car

It’s comfortable, driving.

Fairies live inside my car,

so the dirt roads don’t

bother me or

anybody else.

It’s holy magic,

the way a warranty

seems to materialize

when all hope has

been lost. To keep

getting lost, engine

immaculate, carpet

immaculate, windshield

immaculate, so it only

makes sense that every

night I dream of it heaving

over the edge of a

cliff into a lake.

I lose my balance, it’s

not on purpose,

the tires jerk the wrong

direction brakes fail

seatbelt locked glass

turning liquid as it

bends in toward me.

The fairies all scream.

I’m awake now and I’m

driving again in

the Pine Barrens.

Halfway to Atlantic City

halfway home.

The windows,

still there. The gas tank,

filled. The windshield,

dirty. The carpets,

dirty. The engine light

turns off.