Waiting for the Tow Truck

for Rob Plath

power steering fluid & oil
pissing from my old girl
forms puddles on the asphalt,
like a mortician draining blood
from a bloated corpse,
while waiting for the tow truck
I search a jumble of books
on the passenger seat
for something to occupy myself,
finding a Bellyful of Anarchy by Rob Plath,
my humble neighbor and friend to the north,
I drift graciously into his mad world,
forgetting the cobwebs in my worn wallet,
the tome on my lap like a tombstone
with wildflowers sprouting around the base,
morning dew still clings to the petals,
while Death yawns nearby,
colorful moths escaping his mouth,
and the tow truck finally arrives,
hoisting my vehicle into the air,
now sitting beside the driver, silently,
devouring poem after poem,
freed from the shit-storm awhile,
as the summer sun becomes obscured
by clusters of bruised clouds,
draping shadows along the far hills.

William Barker lives in New Jersey with his wife, two boys, and black cat, Ziggy. He runs a used book business.  When he can unearth himself from the piles of books long enough, he enjoys translating the concerts and films inside his head into poetry and prose.  He has previously published three collections of poetry, one chapbook, and had poems published by River Dog Press, Heroin Love Songs, Soup Can Magazine, Silver Birch Press, Laughing Ronin Press, Alien Buddha Press, Newington Blue Press, Between Shadows Press, and many others.