In the cold of my car I shivered,
as the engine ran,
                     I sat still hoping to
dispense with the chill,
                 but my will said, 'accept it you are a wimp and an old cold one at that"
I was wearing my hat and my coat with light gloves,
                                                                ­        I loves to wear, they separate my fingers
            from the cold,
knitted grey and bold,
        they let me hold,
objects of metal like keys to hearts,  objects of stone like me very own heart,
                    objects of desire, that I keep secret until something transpires
                                                      ­               which warms better than fires,
on a dark and lonely night under the stars bright, wait was that my tire?
Oh where did I wonder off too,
                              as I was in thought, now lost,
   my wit, not sharp as the nail in my tire, the cost,
on a dark night in November, as six speeding police cars swoop past me,
on an urgent mission to stop a crime, their sirens wail as I am a
counterintuitive pantomime against the noise that assails me while
I am changing
a tire but remain the same,
metal tire rod tool in my hand, stone cold heart beating, against my ribs,
as I labor in disbelief that where I live is across from where I stand,
and with all technology you have to get on your hands and knees to
change a tire, I sneeze, I am not sure which is worse,
                                         my situation or these verse,
which decorate the night, not like stars,
as when spoken aloud every other word is profane,
while two homeless push there wares by me and laugh
                                                           ­     with disdain.
For in these transactions they have more street cred than I,
  and I would give them a bitcoin of my thoughts, but they
are two and I am one, alone and without a cell phone, and
this poem rolling around like lug nuts in a hubcap, as frost
creeps closer than the creeps who wish to reap of my misfortune.

Of which I now have some, that I can mix with theirs and then
I notice their bloodthirsty stares, so I begin to recite this poetry
and expound on the woe in me and send them packing covering their
ears with out attacking my hapless now three wheeled car.

When I was done I was nuttier than those lugs,
"good news" it was too cold for bugs,
and with good conscience you, from this, can unplug.


©DWE112013