We Each Drove a Car with a Paper License Plate
maybe my car could spot yours
by Anna Wang
to our first date
you said you bought a new car
out of mid-life crisis
I looked at you, giggling
before Christmas
my permanent license arrived
I went to the nearby Walmart
for a screwdriver
the Starbucks
still there
I saw the two of us
still talking
the cast iron table
more timeless
than our cars—
each with a paper license plate
as if babies
waiting to grow out of
their transient
baby caps
now my car has grown to an adult
having a metal plate, a permanent
combination of numbers and letters
what’s your combination?
why do I even care?
maybe my car could spot yours
in this wind-swept, gigantic parking lot
if they brushed past each other
perhaps it remembers
the short excursion
in its effervescent, balmy youth
adorned with
ephemeral paper license plate
might it even say “hi”
like a composed, oblivious adult
secretly
heart being shredded
like the paper license plate?
Anna Wang, originally from China and now living in California, has been writing in Chinese for over thirty years. She is currently the only gray-haired graduate student pursuing an MA in Writing at Point Loma Nazarene University. Follow her on Twitter: @AnnaWangYuan, Instagram: anna_wang_yuan, and Bluesky: @annawangyuan.bsky.social
