No matter
how much gas you put in the tank,
it does not
mend a broken piston.
Two or three
or some-other-number
days wait for
a replacement, here,
on the
northeast side of
We-Got-Lost,
Canada.
Or a local
farmer might maybe make
alliterations
and altercations to a
tractor
engine
sufficient
reshaping for a
Sturdy
American Sedan,
crammed full
of adults, teens and
One Small Child,
who wonders
if the bats
flying
against the window
are vampires
and if they
break that
window,
will they
kill her?
One Small Child,
wrapped
smaller
still, huddled under the
bed, so she
can’t see
that big
window with no curtain,
those
fluttering wings, or
hear the
high pitched squeaks
that sound just
like her, when she hid
in the
backseat footwell
to avoid her
brothers’ pinches.
Perhaps the
farmer can reshape
her small
enough to
box her and
ship her
home.
