Back off Mother Teresa

Creaky car beneath me.
A survival fugue
in search of a place
that's all corners
where you can't get a clear shot off.

Flipping the radio dial
a crease in the static
muted horns reaching out
big band quickening luminescent silhouettes
in geriatric limbs.

I'm in there with John Wayne
bad teeth and unexamined life
sitting in the Iron Lung dining room
at the Holiday Inn
amputated just above the buttocks
by a seed casing
that once held love
then rage
then nothing.

Can't go there again.
Crawling back into this creaky pod
hunkering down with mustard seeds.