the blonde and the atom automobile
Tonight I want to marvel at the woman who ducks when she drives under bridges as if her body is the car, as if the top of her head is the sun roof, as if she isn’t in a car at all just holding a steering wheel at arms length floating down the road, exposed, motorway-wind in her bob, no car seat either, squatting on space like a lost figurine once glued to a tiny bench on a train-set platform, perched on the breeze, boot-tips tapping air pedals, ringless hand switching air gears, singing along to the radio in her head – not connected to a satellite but to space itself , where right now the exploded remains of a supernova roar like a billion invisible motors soon to clump with other stardust giving birth to a new self, brighter, better than the one she used to be and till that day comes she is just the whirling bits of a heart blown open. But look at her go. This blonde star in her car made of atoms, revving on a wish, brum brum brum…
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