I do my best thinking while driving

using a dashboard drawing board

and rolled down window arm rest

with a stolen bank ink pen

attached to nothing by

two remaining links of chain

I write crooked words on the pages

of a drug store spiral pocket notebook

and just as I would clean up

before hospital visits to you

I neatly rewrite these thoughts

onto parchment with a quill pen

purchased by a childhood me

at the Liberty Bell gift shop

and now during solo trips to

the market or movies or cemetery

and before feather meets inkwell

these pages reside between

sun visor and pickup ceiling

until enough thoughts are collected to

assemble them on the hood of the truck

which is just ten feet forward of

our teen aged flesh pressed in

brick wall humidity

and like a reservation dealer

I shuffle these wounded heart love notes

discarding the jokers

and then I deal from the bottom

to ghosts of us then

and doubling down across a

world weary paint job

where they end up

in a logical order or not

like a Papiermâché timeline or

a never complete jigsaw puzzle

and the last piece looks like you

copyright 2013 Steven Harz

Please check out my book of poetry and short fiction, “Songs you can’t dance to”

http://www.amazon.com/Songs-You-Cant-Dance-ebook/dp/B00ATQW5XK

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