Colleen Erin





The tow truck finally arrives to take their car away. It's been three years since they

died; motionless in the driveway all that time, the snow piling on top of the hood and

the autumn leaves rotting underneath the windshield wipers and the summer rain

rusting the hubcaps. A postmodern sculpture changes with the seasons. Scrapmetal,

I watch as the slow funereal procession makes its way past my window, but it is

raining and so I have to rub the moisture away.


Oilslick paints asphalt

Purplish-green mirror shines—

Cement tattooed


I try not to slip on memories.



(Originally posted November 3, 2008)


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