Dear August;

You listened to my voice
and still carried me home,
pleading please go, please
singing to thick night air
and metered yellow lines;

We move in unison, through silences
and humming mornings, happening upon
clouds and moths and dirt roads;
your red body lined with wax and scratches
and mine lined with skin;

Dear August,
I’m sorry this name never stuck.
It smells of church basements
and you smell like the beach,
like an ocean town twenty years too old.

It’s more of a wish than a name,
a rotating notion that you’re not
a machine.
Thrusting pistons, Cylinders, Gas, Brakes,
metal and rubber things like that.

What if you were to not start,
right here, on this hill
as that AAA truck peels away
at the sight of a used car dealership?
Click.

Why do you want to die
so badly?
Is it too mocking
to ask if you need a rest?
Click.

Throw me into the landfill.
Metal and rubber and things
crunched up and stationary,
Work must be boring.
The wind must be old.

You must hate the sound of my voice
by now.
Thank you, seats and doors and motor and hood,
thank you
for lasting; for starting one more time.

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2 thoughts on “Dear August;

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