It’s. Just. A. Poem. (But Maybe You’ve Been There)



Broken Down

My car is broken down outside Needles, California.

I wish I could write a poem. A good poem about my broken down car. The kind of poem that would live inside you like an avocado seed – securely happy in a sea of warm green flesh. But I can’t write poems anymore. I never could, really.

Or a maybe I could write a movie script. Not even a whole movie. Just a scene about a broken down car in Needles, California. Two people talking. Finally breaking through everything that separates them. A lingering close up in front of the car. But I’ve never written a movie scene, and besides, people spend years writing scripts, so it must be more complicated than what it appears.

Or maybe I could write a song. Something ironic and full of ambiguous feeling. But I don’t know how to write songs either. If I could write a song it would be mysterious. Something like: I begin each day swimming in your eyes / asking only for a brief respite upon your shore. I begin each day swimming in your eyes/ looking for forgiveness and nothing more. But like I said, I don’t write songs. So that is that.

My car is broken down outside Needles, California.

I am waiting on a tow truck. I am waiting for you.






  1. The act of not-writing a poem/script/song, in this instance, is a clever means of doing just that. Evocative. Mysterious. My prayers and blessings to you and yours. Not sure which of the two is more needed, so covering all bases.

  2. Somewhere there is a country and western song in there, waiting to get out. Were you on the way to Nashville? This may be a new talent emerging!

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