Hey there. Some flash poetry for ya. Unedited. Just getting my brain in gear. :)
Three White Chevys
Three white Chevys in the graveyard.
Ignore the sore
throat. Somewhere, west, I imagine
the thick, terry cloth, his tightly
tucked towel.
Next, I see him raise each brow,
wide-eyed, wildly
brushing his teeth
in perfect circles.
Then I hear him say
fuck it and light up.
Before noon, he too furiously
curses his mirror, the whole shape.
Three white Chevys leaving
soon. Ignore the sore neck. In a crowd,
he rarely turns,
his tight tuxedo
holding him back.
Or perhaps, deeper, between the discs,
the thin cartilage is worn to shreds,
like mean linen, like wax
paper.
Antique motor -- my bones grind
away, inside out.
I hear the coming
of age, knotted ever
so carefully, wrapped
in pure, somber, reflective
static.
Then I hurry home alone, find the last
of the paste, brush in perfect circles,
then say fuck it and light
up.
C.A. MacConnell
