Fiat. Model ’88.

A Fiat. Model ’88.

Monument

to my extinction.

A ruin

capable of grace.

Only a trace

of what’s dead

survives

in such kaleidoscopes.

The bright colours

cause a headache.

But this substrate

of old ways

stands at the edge,

beyond commiseration.

Rickety machines

don’ t burn Mondays

to keep themselves warm

they forget.

The only one left

without qualms

is her

in my garage

forty square feet

of space

my hermitage.

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