Car Made Out of Words
It’s not a car yet. It’s a few lines and circles gunning for a destination. The thing palpitates. It hurls gas. It’s faster for what’s not there.
We tore through town, and I talked nonstop. “I think you’ve become a man with a car made out of words,” she said, unbuttoning the top button on her sweater made out of cashmere. It gave me chills. I wanted redemption. I wanted speed. I wanted my day in court. The more I explained that I wasn’t a man with a car made out of words, the more I became just that.
Glen Armstrong edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters and has three recent chapbooks: Set List (Bitchin Kitsch,) In Stone and The Most Awkward Silence of All (both Cruel Garters Press.)