I’m sitting in this compact car, listening to the
Sirius free trial, the vacuum suction cup hissing
from my dusty windshield, while the man in blue
who I’m about to pay $40 for fixing the rock peck
in the glass is sitting in his office, sipping on a sweaty
Coca Cola Classic. He’ll eventually step into the icy
air, I’ll fork over my 5.3 hours of minimum wage, clueless
to whether or not he actually did anything to keep
it from spreading. And I’m watching my strong
independent status wash away like all my
childhood fish in the toilet bowl.
Merrell Miles is a poet and emerging writer.
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