sixteenth bird

After a long hiatus which involves more excuses, as well as some emotional turmoil (not mine, except by empathy) and some being focused on things that are more important, like birthdays, crises, time with friends and family, and, quite frankly, finding God more important than self expression, I'm back with your next bird.


Create something with what you find in your car.
Well, I don't really have anything in my car except for crumpled receipts and dust. At the suggestion of Carroll (and after a failed attempt at a video which died a tragic death and was neatly discarded in a place where no one will ever see it, though I may yet try to revive it), I've decided to write my car a poem. To be specific and obnoxious, I'm writing an ubi sunt, which is a style taken from the Latin phrase "Ubi sunt qui ante nos fuerunt?", meaning "Where are those who were before us?"  Ubi sunts celebrate or bemoan the transitory nature of life and the things in it, and as such are perfect for discussing the dilapidation of a beloved vehicle (although not so beloved as my first car, which may have contributed to the current strain on our association).




To the aging of my car, and how this affects our relationship
--an ubi sunt


Painfully idling at a stop light, the car shudders, dies,
the last wheeze of an impatient engine that cannot 
handle the waiting,
would rather give up than sit still.
Then an agonizing regeneration,
like a phoenix who dies in a carbon dioxide cough
and comes back old
after three tries.


Where is my engine, which used to roar
with vim and vigor and ferocity and oomph
Where is the full force of my air conditioning, which whispers and quits
when it's switched to full blast
(Where, for that matter, is the cold air? I know what you're doing. You're blowing in the outside.
This delightful morning breeze cannot fool me at midday.)
Where are the cup holders? (The cup holders! The cup holders!
As long as I've known you they've never emerged to serve the busy hands,
except for one, which, like a child frightened by authority, collapses on contact,
spilling hot coffee on laps and papers, purses, pocket books, passengers, projects,
and homemade lunch.)
Where is the key to the child-safe locks
on the windows in the backseat
so that the passengers can determine how badly they want their hair 
tangled and how loudly they want to shout 
instead of relying on me
who rolls the windows all the way down
and then drives down the highway 
with focus and speed


For that matter
where are the passengers
who used to ride with me 
holding their frozen drinks in aching hand
shouting over the din of the traffic
or the high blast of the finest cold air
petroleum can produce
Why do I find myself alone in a car
that gasps and grows still
at the sight of a light glowing red at the center of each intersection