BandAide
03-03-2005, 08:23 AM
Junk Mail/ you are/ the stuff I throw away/ without even opening/ without even noticing/ without even considering your value. You are a coupon. You are someone’s grand opening. You are a sixteen year old boy trying to make a buck/ by hosting his own car wash/ next Sunday at 9 on the corner of Washington and Prospect. You are some kids squeegee/ his bucket of soap and his hose puckering, spitting, blasting, splashing city water on the white, white rings/ looped about the hub caps/ on the tires of Jeremy Smith’s Pick Up Truck. It’s a 2005. Bought at the local new car lot/ on route 31/ en route to the A&P and Burger King. Junk Mail/ you are a babysitter I never thought to hire. You are a church yard sale I never patroned/ I only drove by/ and thought, “They really should have put up a sign, er, advertised that er somethin’.” It’s too bad I’m on the way to somewhere I’m already late. I’m already late. I’m always late. Junk Mail/ you are a miracle drug that eats the carbohydrates in pizza, pretzels and bagels. You are a lecture are the local college by an author I’ve always admired. You are a lawn service I can not afford. You are a menu that I never studied and ordered. You are a world of things that sit in my trash can, with the week old humus/ stale pita and milk carton.