Dear God of 1984 Monte Carlos
Oh ye who art of the slow and unsteady,
Let us pray to you now.

Dear God of 1984 Monte Carlos
we never learned how to pray proper.
Our tongues weren’t dexterous enough
to form around the vocabulary so they
formed around bodies and blue heat and electric.
Crucifixion came naturally to us
as we exchanged shivers
in a sweaty funeral that ended early.
Now, every time I see a Monte Carlo,
I am reminded of abandoned parking lots
and the mispronunciation of my name.

Dear God of 1984 Monte Carlos,
all 3,751ccs and 125hps.
They don’t make gods like they used to.
When your incarnation shuddered its final gospel,
a salvage yard disassembled it,
sold the usable parts to other worshippers
of 1984 Monte Carlos.
The passengerside door gone to a woman in Indiana.
A piston to a kid in Colorado.
Our intermingled sweat in the fibers of the seat sent
to a recluse in Georgia.
Our gasps condensed on the windshield
sold to a loner in California.
The peel of our bare hipskin taken
by a man in Wyoming.
His long incoherent drives
across the cracked landscape
must seem less lonely.
His howls at the dashboard
must sound like mantras.

Bless him,
sweet Lord of 1984 Monte Carlos.
Hear his song.
Hear the rumble of his engine
in praise of you.
Guide him to whatever dead end
as you once guided me.

Amen.

 

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