~ ~ ~ f r o m O C T O B E R 2 0 0 4 ~ ~ ~
“OBJECTS IN MIRROR ARE CLOSER THAN THEY APPEAR.”
Inside the car, the rain does not matter. Sitting in a parking lot, I watch the drops land on the windshield, rivulets running down the windowpane. There is a sad sense of peace in this moment. I am alone.
A sign hangs from the rear-view mirror: “IMPORTANT: REMOVE TAG BEFORE VEHICLE IS IN MOTION.”
A parking pass for work. Green and white and checked off (by hand) to the date it expires. As if anyone would ever know. In the seat of the car I let out a sigh. Safe in a mechanical sanctuary as the neon lights blur and bleed.
“DEATH OR SERIOUS INJURY CAN OCCUR.”
This spelled out on a visor. Pennies, dark and discolored, are mired in the sticky syrup of soda spilled long ago. A ghostly shoe-mark of light tan fades gently on the glove compartment. And a brown paper bag hides my poison.
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