The need to apologize for this body:
1. left headlight hangs loose from its socket, dangling
like hooked worm, beaten by an old Buick
from Tennessee last year.
2. Dented driverside door, drummed in with the
sweet swing of baseball bat buckled by
burn out – I moved out two weeks later.
3. Scratch chip paint like crumbles in Earth
spreading outward, crooked finger fissures
cracking through pen-traced state lines.
4. Trunk hinge un-clickable, rhythmic bumping
of boxes in back, slapping loose lock,
uneasy escape when Wisconsin winds finally
lift the lid on I-94 and instead of breadcrumbs
it is battered books, BIC-pen letters on the interstate.
5. Missing rearview mirror, little brother bunched
his knees beneath steering wheel, swerving
with little whoops whistling inside wired
jawbone, a hard swipe on the right from a brick
mailbox ended us in a puddle of brake fluid.
And that is to say nothing of the state of the engine.