Ranch Dressing

An Ode to the Guy Who Ranched My Car

Folder: 
The Pixie Dust

An Ode to the Guy Who Ranched My Car

Apartment living, we coexist in communes.

Living side by side like boxed in sardines

We stomp on each-other’s silence.

We know more than we would like

About each other’s sex lives.

 

Your crappy Toyota with taped up wheel-wells

Lays dormant at the front of the lot,

Itching to be the silver Focus out back

Where we currently reside.

No chain linked fences define our territory.

 

Your inconvenience is to my ignorance,

And my ignorance was your bliss.

Ranch dressing  carelessly thrown out

Of your second story apartment

Covers my innocuous Ford Focus.

A spotted lion covered in calories,

You’ve upset the predator.

 

 

To your relief, I was nowhere in sight

Until I went to my Focus later that night.

Closing the door to your stage that you stomp

Across every night,

I unanticipatedly discover your art.

 

So gorgeous, it was!

A mass murder scene featuring the condiment

Ranch like the blood of an innocent man after a shot

To the head where he stand waiting

For his mother to pick up the phone,

To tell Momma that he’ll be back home,

But never actually sees home again.

 

Like a movie bound to end in tragedy where

We, as the audience, stand mouth agape

Waiting for the man to pull back the curtain

And the violin screeching to get louder.

A knife to the gut

And a scream to raise hair faster than hands in

A class room where everyone knows the answer.

 

Here’s your extra credit my dear friend.

To the Man who Ranched my Car, I ask,

“Why did you peer out of the window?”

You could have gotten away with it,

But you watched me as I stood behind my car,

Our eyes met for only an instant, and I knew

It was hate at first ranching.

 

You smile in your sleep knowing that I know,

And your ignorance is my bliss because

Your crappy Toyota sleeps soundly at night

Undisturbed by the ketchup in my fist,

And the smile on my face

Behind the window I kept closed

Below the stage that you stomped across

To become the victim to your own play.

 

 

 

 

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