By: Nathan Childers
I keep having dreams about car crashes.
About being shattered at the waist
About mosaic windshields,
And dented skulls like car doors.
I keep thinking about how the Jaws of
Life might be better used on someone else,
Or how they better get my good side
When they take pictures
Of the crime scene.
I keep driving by foreclosed office buildings
Covered in graffiti and messages
That say “Dream”
Or maybe they say “Drat”
But honestly, it doesn’t matter.
And honestly, the guy who wrote this
Probably died years ago,
Or moved away,
Or had a much better epiphany he
Scribbled onto the Kroger near my house.
My dad told me my worth can only be measured
By the kind of work I produce with my hands.
And just yesterday
I paid some guy thirty bucks to change my oil.
It’s still amazing to me how the universe has this perfect
Formula of nebulas and black holes and how we’re
Only calling ourselves the center because we’re
Pretending we discovered it first. And while the universe
Can compose some symphony of shooting stars and
Imploding suns, I can hardly remember to have my
Keys with me every time I drive.