Tuesday, April 2, 2013

Windshield Wipers

I think your windshield wipers are broken.
No, that is not a euphemism.
No, I didn’t mean to make you feel ashamed. What do you mean
that wasn’t the question? The last thing I thought of you
is always the first one I see when you walk in
to the Walmart we work at,
parting the automatic doors like seas of glass,
ready as a fitted knight in your white smock to do the work of love.
I do not think you look ridiculous. I like your red ears,
your addictions;
they give you dignity, something to resist.
Your windshield wipers are crooked. Someone
might have snapped one clear in half.
I know it’s not raining. Why are you yelling?
I thought last week how lovely your lips are. I bet your kisses are cold
in a nice way. Won’t you just get them fixed?
I know a man who’s open all the time.
Is it the money? I can pay for it. I’m sorry I don’t mean to make you
feel awkward. Consider it a loan. Please—I am afraid your fear
and fearlessness will lead you and your rusty red Honda
into the flood.