Oscar and me
Five cars sit on the driveway –
none inside the garage, which
is too full of crap to hold even a
bicycle. No problem there, the bike
disappeared years ago along with
the wife, the kid and the Chevy El Camino.
Two more cars are in the front lawn
because there is no more room
on the blacktop and because
it's not really a lawn at all
but a dirt patch that tries.
Three cars are parked on the street.
That's ten cars by my count.
Four that the state knows about.
Not a one of these clunkers
runs all of the time, but all of them
will run at least some of the time.
They're not much to look at
but then neither am I kemosabe.
That’s my dog Oscar over there
dozing on top of the Plymouth Fury,
soaking up its rusty radiant heat.
Watching him sleep you might say
what a lazy good for nothing cur,
and you’d be mostly right, but trouble
stops on the other side of that chain
link fence. I give him credit for that.
Lord almighty, just look at this place.
It's a wonder my neighbors don’t complain
more. But they seem to know;
they got the same foul wind blowing
on their side of the street, raising up
dust and despair. Debt collectors.
The uneasy voices that wake Oscar
and me from a deep sleep at 2am.
I got my eye on this '67 Cadillac DeVille.
Powder blue. Needs work. I don't have
the money. Still, the guy who owns it
says ain't nobody gonna buy it but me.
It'll be there when you're ready, he says.
I drove the Caddy home once, wanted to see
what it looked like parked on the driveway.
I had to shuffle the fleet to make room.
Oscar walked over, sniffed it up and down,
pissed on the tires. That damn dog.
Well, he's got his opinion. I got mine.
10:53:55 PM  Poems
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