An Autobiographical Inquiry, in Four Parts

1
Sometimes
when I think I am unwatched
and seated in a friend's car
(I am in the driver's seat; perhaps he is in the bank)
I will press my teeth into the wheel
and, primarily, I will think about texture
about pliancy and grip
rather than the bitter taste of worn rubber
and hands

and what could that possibly
say about me?
And then I write it down;
what of that?

2
As a rule
I must be asked
to fasten my seat belt.
if I were in that person's place,
I think I would interpret this as a sort of test, perhaps
of whether I cared enough
about your life
to insist
but I would be wrong

Rather
I hate the metallic slide
and the tinkerer's click
the sound of false comfort

To be honest, once I am so secured,
I forget it entirely.

3
You are a woman:
when you are fumbling
in the cold and the dark

fingers stiff as pens
stiff as a drink

at a single key
at a single door
with the narrative of warmth:
an implied correlation between entry
and happiness,
comfort, contentment

have you ever thought
that our anatomies
are somehow lacking?
I sometimes think keys and
doors are built for romance
in ways we are not.
I think I could parse that one out,
but I'd prefer to hear your thoughts.

4
Hail stones
gave your car
a quality it lacked

I'd pay perhaps double
for a mode of transport with that kind of
depth

More honestly, though, I'm just jealous;
I wish the dents from storms I've weathered
were visible, in the right light
at the correct angle

I think, maybe
I have answered my second question.

Sterile Foodstuffs

In a supermarket, every
twitch of the eye
is a jarring non sequitur.

Though I once believed I liked bright colors,
the gleam and smear
of commerce
dulled that instinct;
stretched and stamped it thin
like maroon library carpet,
or the seats of a luxury sedan
twenty years on the road;
a tired sigh of a car.
 
I would eat these shapes and hues,
and will, but some days I feel more
or less ready for more geometric shapes

my terrible red car agrees;
together, we have eaten more meals from
gas stations
than we care to admit.
Here: the course bitter center of it, truly:
I am lying
on some level
if I do not share:
I love the senseless peace
of parking on the open, desolate roof
of this grocery store.